It’s been a while since I felt the urge to put my feelings into words. The past few weeks—months, really—have been nothing short of a rollercoaster of emotions and complete breakdowns.
My personal life is in shambles.
And my work life, which used to be my only escape… the one place where I felt like I belonged, where I felt important, respected—that too has completely fallen apart since I moved to my current company.
In my previous post, I wrote about making a decision to finally do something for myself—to backpack across Europe, and then… exit.
That decision hasn’t changed. If anything, it has only become stronger.
Sounds sad? Yes.
But weirdly, it’s the only thing keeping me alive right now.
I feel lighter. Relieved. Almost… free.
Nothing really fazes me anymore.
If someone tells me I’m not good enough at work—I don’t care.
If my romantic relationships fall apart—I don’t care.
My goal?
Europe. Just Europe. That trip. That’s it.
For a brief moment in time, I allowed myself something I hadn’t in years—I gave love a chance.
And somehow, that made my mental health worse.
No one’s fault, really. Just the right person at the wrong time.
For a moment, I thought… maybe I could change my decision. Maybe I might actually want to live. To experience love, affection—the things I’ve craved my entire life.
To be chosen.
To be someone’s first priority.
To feel loved. To feel important.
It all felt so close. Like I could just reach out and hold onto it.
And then… it fell apart.
What I feel now isn’t heartbreak. It’s anger.
Anger at myself—for expecting life to finally go the way I wanted.
I forgot something.
Life has always had a pattern with me—it throws stones at every glass house I try to rebuild.
Every single time.
Now, my life is centered around one thing, and one thing only.
No expectations. From anyone.
I don’t want to be perfect anymore.
I don’t want to live up to anyone else’s version of who I should be.
I don’t want to punish myself for not living the life I once imagined.
I don’t want to regret not choosing myself—at least once—before I die.
I want to live life on my own terms.
And yes… I want to end it on my own terms too.
Sounds morbid? Yes.
Sounds like giving up? Probably.
Sounds like I’m a coward? Maybe.
But I don’t care anymore.
I’ve already been labeled a hundred things for things I haven’t even done.
Being labeled for something I am choosing feels… oddly relieving.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve realized something my family has always said about me.
That I’m unlovable. Undesirable. Difficult.
And for the longest time, that hurt. Deeply.
It still does, somewhere.
But what changed is how I look at it now.
The more I thought about it, the more I understood something important—
my happiness, my life, my choices… they are mine.
I gave people too much power over my self-worth. Over how I feel about myself.
That stops now.
And it will stay stopped.
Someone recently told me, “Being a victim is addictive.”
And I think… there’s some truth to that. But also, not entirely.
I don’t see myself as a victim.
But I’ve realized that some people see me that way.
They think I’m “playing the victim card.”
And honestly? I find that funny.
Because no one who has actually been through pain—real pain—wants to be a victim.
All I want is peace.
Not happiness. Not success. Not validation.
Just… peace.
The freedom to reach my goal.
Will I change my decision at the end of it?
I don’t know.
Right now, I haven’t.
And I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
The only thing I regret… is making the people who love me feel like they can fix this. Or change this.
I once heard someone say:
“Don’t lose your self-worth over someone else’s choices.”
That stayed with me.
Because I’ve spent my entire life doing exactly that—losing myself over decisions made by other people.
And now I finally understand something:
Life is short.
Life is unfair.
Not everyone gets what they deserve.
And that’s okay.
If you’re reading this, this isn’t a post meant to encourage anything.
This is just my story.
My experience.
This is me—speaking, screaming into the void.
When I can’t say these things out loud… I come here.
I don’t track who reads this. I don’t look for it.
So what do I get from writing this?
Relief.
A strange sense of comfort in knowing that I can scream into a space where no one interrupts me.
No one silences me.
No one tells me I’m wrong for feeling what I feel.
No one rewrites my reality but me.
Leave a Reply