march

I realized I haven’t logged in here for a while, but I’m back to update the void on how I’ve been lately. Not that anyone’s listening, but sometimes writing things down makes it feel like I am, at least to myself. These past few months have been a series of highs and lows, but strangely, they don’t consume me the way they used to. I don’t know if I’ve actually grown stronger or if I’ve just become better at suppressing things. Either way, I don’t feel the weight as much anymore, and I’m not sure if that’s progress or if I’m just becoming numb to my own life.

One thing I know for sure is that I’ve changed. Not in some grand, obvious way, but in subtle shifts that even I wasn’t expecting. For the first time in years, I’m taking initiative, pushing myself to do things I never used to. I don’t know what triggered it. Maybe I just got tired of feeling inferior. Maybe the need to prove—to myself, to others—that I’m capable finally started outweighing the fear of failing. And for once, I feel like I’m actually trying. It’s not perfect. It’s not consistent. But it’s something, and that has to count for something, right?

I’ve started going out more, meeting up with friends, making memories I would’ve once let slip by. Sure, it drains my wallet, but I remind myself that money comes and goes, while these moments—these people—might not always be there. And speaking of friends, I’ve been reevaluating a lot of my relationships. Some friendships have deepened in ways I never expected, while others have faded into something I no longer feel the need to hold on to. I used to tolerate a lot—two years of brushing things off, telling myself it wasn’t worth the confrontation. But now? I don’t have the energy to keep people in my life who don’t help me grow. I tried once. I put my feelings out there, hoping they’d acknowledge them, but all I got was silence. That silence told me everything. It hurts to realize I was never really seen as a friend, just a classmate, just someone convenient to have around. But it’s not my burden to carry anymore. They can keep playing their immature games, and I’ll let life—college, adulthood, whatever comes next—teach them the lessons I no longer feel obligated to.

But if there’s one thing that’s been weighing on me the most, it’s my future. Or rather, my complete and utter uncertainty about it. I finally told my dad the thoughts that have been festering inside me for years—the fear that I’m not good enough, that I’ll never be good enough. That I don’t try because, deep down, I don’t believe I’ll make it through college anyway. The thought of entrance exams, of competing with people who are so obviously ahead of me, of tuition fees that feel like an impossible wall—it's all kept me stuck in place, paralyzed by my own self-doubt. But saying it out loud, admitting it, felt like something shifting. Like a heavy stone being pried from my chest, even if the imprint of its weight is still there.

All I ever wanted was reassurance. That I’ll be okay. That we’ll figure it out. And I got that reassurance, but somehow, I still feel guilty. Guilty for feeling this way in the first place, guilty for making them worry, guilty for not being the person I think they wanted me to be. My parents have been trying to understand me more ever since, even though I know it’s hard for them. My mom still doesn’t quite grasp where this deep insecurity comes from, but at least she’s trying. And for once, I feel like she actually sees me. I want to tell her everything—that no matter what I accomplish, I always feel like it’s not enough, that I feel like I’m constantly falling behind—but I can’t. The words just won’t come out.

And yet, despite all these emotions, all these thoughts, there’s this eerie emptiness underneath it all. It confuses me. It’s like I’m feeling everything and nothing at the same time. There are days when I think I’m getting better, when I think I’m moving forward. But then there are days when the thought of ending it all crosses my mind more than it ever has before. It’s not that I want to die, exactly. It’s just that I don’t know if I see the point of continuing. I feel like I’m playing a role in a story I didn’t write, an actor in a play that’s already been scripted out for me. And I’m just waiting for the final act, the part where I can finally stop pretending.

Maybe it all hit me harder after seeing my past right in front of me again. I visited my old school yesterday—a science high school that once felt like the whole world to me. They had an event, booths, familiar faces scattered across the campus. My old classmates still remembered me, but only in the way you remember someone you once knew, not in a way that actually matters. And I guess I can’t blame them. I was the one who cut them off, the one who used the pandemic as an excuse to disappear because, deep down, I felt too small there. I told myself I had moved on, that I didn’t care, but being back—seeing the people, the teachers, even the one who unknowingly left scars I still carry—it was like standing in front of a mirror I had been avoiding for years.

It felt like exposure therapy. I even joked about it, but the truth is, it really was. And maybe that’s why, despite everything, I don’t feel as broken as I thought I would. The past is behind me, distant enough that I no longer feel the need to keep looking back. And while I still don’t know what the future holds, or even what I want from it, I think—for now—I just need to focus on the present.

And you know what? I’m proud of myself. I’m proud of myself for holding on this long because for years, I truly believed I wouldn’t make it past fifteen. I was convinced that I wouldn’t exist beyond that point, that my story would end before it even had the chance to unfold. And yet, here I am. I don’t know if I’m happy, or if I ever will be, but I’m here. I made it past the age I thought would be my limit. And if I’ve come this far, maybe—just maybe—I can keep going.

Maybe I can find something worth staying for, like cleaning my room.