Some days I don’t want to live and I’m tired of pretending otherwise.
This season of reflection has been offering me a glimpse into who I’ve become and I’m on the fence about whether that’s genuine growth or stagnant regression.
I am constant reliving days and weeks in my mind, as if the highlight reel of rumination were more like a cautionary tale for how I am fucking up in all of my interactions with the world.
Writing is the only way to exorcise the overwhelming thoughts because talking about it is not social acceptable, even with those closest to me.
I shouldn’t still be with the same emotional and mental issues right? I should have “fixed” my broken spirit some time between previous breakdowns. Because trauma dumping is real and the only person who should confront those demons are the ones who are living through those mental battles.
If it’s that bad, go to therapy.
If that doesn’t work, get on meds.
If that still doesn’t resolve the intrusive thoughts and oversharing, then prepare to find a new place of belonging because if there’s one thing I know, it’s how disposable I can become once my challenges inconvenience others.
If strategy is my escape then storytelling is my drug. Entrepreneurship became a space where I could hide from myself and the desire to remain invisible meant I could exploit myself for fake validation.
Now that I want to be seen and take up space, it’s giving the vibe of “not like that.”
So much of my existence is full of “not like that” whether it’s from my own inner voice or the not so subtle cues I get from others.
I am a creator. It’s why I loved the name Renaissance Empress. But I get tired of feeling like I need to constant create myself.
And while I would love to embody the essence of being unapologetic about who I am, there’s a quiet part of me that wants to feel acknowledged.
I won’t ever have kids and the finality of that statement doesn’t comfort me the way it used to. So my legacy is what I build. It’s what I leave behind. And there are times where the thought of leaving an imprint is not compelling enough to keep me invested in living.
For the record, as of this writing, I am not in crisis.
Expressing a grievance with life shouldn’t have to come with reassurances or content warnings.
When I have to spend more time convincing other people that I am not in danger, that tells me their feelings of worry and discomfort have to be prioritized over my bouts of sadness. When I have to warn people of my content, that signals to me that there’s something wrong with feeling this way.
What’s always been frustrating to watch is how the world bends over backwards to reassure the likable people that their voice is valid and needed but when it comes to someone like me, those olive branches are only extended in prose.
Life was easier when I wanted to be invisible because it meant that I didn’t have to try to be seen. And now that I want to take up space, I’m reminded why people like me more when I shut the fuck up.
Who would ever want to spend a lifetime feeling like the only way they are embraced is when they aren’t seen or heard?