Doom

Sometimes, I just wake up, and already, it feels like I've ruined the day. Nothing happened yet, but there's this pressure in my chest, this invisible weight that says, "You did this." It's not even about what's coming; it's about what I already am: like I have built something inside me that's gradually collapsing, brick by brick, and I can hear the sound of it all falling, yet I can't move. I made the mess and now I'm living inside it.

There's a type of sadness that doesn't scream. It hums quietly beneath everything. I carry it around like it's some part of my nervous system, like blood or breath. It's not even loud enough to call a breakdown. It's smaller, quieter-a soft ache that never shuts up. I don't think people notice. I laugh, I talk, I text back, I pretend to care about things, and I do, but only on the surface. Beneath, it's just this heavy fog.

And the worst part is knowing I'm the one who built it. Like, I keep pressing on the bruise just to make sure it still hurts. I sabotage every good thing before it can mean something. I tell myself it's not going to work out anyway, so why bother? I make excuses, I make walls, I make everything harder. I'm both the villain and the victim in my own story. I keep replaying every small thing I've ever done wrong until it's a movie I can't stop watching.

I don't think I hate myself; it's weirder than that. I disappoint myself. I'm tired of being me, but I also don't really want to be anyone else. It's this weird limbo I can't escape but can't stay in. I look in the mirror, and it's not that I don't recognize the face-I do, too well. I know every flaw, every tiny sign of exhaustion, every moment I faked being okay.

Some nights, it feels as if there is something waiting for me in the dark. Not a ghost or anything like that, just the version of me that's finally honest. The one who doesn't keep pretending everything is okay. The one who says that I am the problem. I can feel it in my bones, this feeling of impending doom creeping up, and something is coming, but not from outside in. It is just me circling back around again.

Trying to fix with the same hands what I broke is like trying to clean a wound with dirt. Every attempt to make it better, I only manage to make worse. And then I wonder why I can't breathe right, why my own mind seems to be against me.

Sometimes, I think the sadness is the only thing that still feels real. I can't always feel joy or excitement anymore-they pass too quickly, like static. But the sadness stays. It's steady. Dependable. It's like gravity-no matter what I do, I come back to it. And it feels weirdly comforting, like an old friend who never left, even when everyone else did.

I've tried finding reasons for it. Childhood stuff, bad habits, the way I talk to myself, the way I never let people really know me-but every time I try to point to the cause, it loops back to me. Like the universe keeps whispering, "It's you." And I hate that. I hate how accurate it feels.

There are these moments, like sunlight cutting through a storm cloud, where for a second everything seems clear. I think, "Maybe I can fix this." Maybe if I just sleep more. Maybe if I just talk to someone. Maybe if I eat better, or stop overthinking, or write it all down. But then it passes and I'm back to the same dull ache, the same pit, the same version of myself promising to change yet never doing.

Sometimes I make jokes about it-like if I say it out loud, it'll stop being heavy. "Haha, I'm broken." "Haha, I hate existing." People laugh because that's what you're supposed to do. It's easier than admitting that the joke is actually a cry for help that's too tired to be loud.

I feel this slow decay inside me, not dramatic, only constant. I keep expecting some great moment-a breakdown, a revelation, a turning point-but it never comes. It's just me, leaking out of myself bit by bit. Like each day, a small amount of energy is lost, some hope, some will. And this all happens so quietly that no one notices.

there’s this weird sense that i’m waiting for something — but i don’t know what. not death, not salvation, just… something that explains why i feel like this. some kind of sign that says, “here’s why.” but i think deep down i already know the reason: it’s because i never let myself be happy. i don’t trust it. i always think happiness is something i’ll ruin if i get too close.

So I self-destruct instead. Slowly, carefully, almost artistically. I say the wrong things. I push people away. I procrastinate until I hate myself for doing that. I create chaos just so I can feel in control of something. And then I cry about the chaos I've created. It's pathetic, but it is mine.

I tell myself I'll change tomorrow, but tomorrow's just another today, and I'm still here writing the same thoughts, which have been there for years. I wonder if someday I will outgrow this version or if I'll keep spiraling out in emotional loops, until it silently kills me.

I don't even know what I want anymore. Peace, maybe. But peace feels fake, like a silence I don't deserve. I have grown so used to the noise in my head that I wouldn't know what to do without it.

Some days I look at my life and think, "This should be enough." I'm not starving. I'm not dying. I have people. I have things. But there's still this empty gap between what I have and what I feel. And nothing fills it. Not music. Not love. Not distraction. Not sleep. Nothing.

I think what scares me most is how normal it's become. The sadness doesn't shock me anymore. It's just there, like background music. I can go through a whole day functioning, smiling even, and the whole time I'm thinking, "I don't want to be here." Not in a dramatic way-just in that numb, detached, fading way.

I wonder when I became my own enemy. Maybe the first time I thought I wasn't enough, or the first time I had convinced myself that no one would stay if they knew what the real me was like. Maybe it's not one moment. Maybe it's a thousand tiny ones that piled up quietly until I couldn't see the floor anymore.

sometimes i think of disappearing. not dying, just… stepping out of everything. deleting myself. not leaving a mess or a note, just slipping away. i fantasize about not being responsible for existing anymore. it’s not even that i want to be gone — i just want to stop feeling like this.

I used to think that if I could just figure myself out, I could fix it. But what if there's nothing to fix? What if this is just who I am? What if I'm not broken-just built wrong?

And then I get angry at myself for thinking that, like I am being dramatic. I tell myself, "You're fine. Other people have it worse." And that voice is louder than the rest. It shames me into silence. So I stay quiet. I keep everything inside until it turns toxic.

It's weird, isn't it, how I can comfort everybody else and not myself? I know the words, the reasoning, the empathy. I can tell another person they are worth it and it will pass, yet I can't believe any of it when it comes to me.

it's like i'm living in a house i built out of guilt. every room echoes with things i should've done differently. i keep wandering from one room to another, trying to find an exit, but it's all me. the walls are me. the ceilings are me. the cracks are me.

sometimes, late at night, I think I hear the house breathing. Like it's alive. Like it's waiting for me to finally give in.

The doom isn't loud. It's not an explosion. It's that quiet certainty that no matter how much effort I put in, I'm going to end up here, right back inside my own head, replaying every regret, every mistake, every what-if.

people talk about "healing" like it's a straight line. like if you just try hard enough, you'll get there. but i think some of us are just meant to orbit our pain forever. we learn to live with it, decorate it, write about it, name it something poetic so it feels less cruel.

but it's still there. It never really leaves. And maybe that's the hardest part-realizing that the sadness isn't temporary. It's me; I am the sadness, the doom, and I made it this way. sometimes i wonder if that's my punishment for never learning how to love myself right. and I think that's where the story ends-not with closure, not with peace, but with me sitting here, typing this out, still unsure if I'm trying to heal or just documenting my slow unraveling. either way, it's all i have left.