31 years. The number echoes in my head like an unending reminder of how long I’ve walked this path, trudging along, hoping for a way out that never arrives. There’s a strange irony in how life’s moments of silence often feel the loudest, how the empty rooms and crowded spaces both hum with the same unbearable stillness. It is not the absence of people but the abundance of misunderstanding that weighs me down.


The months have bled together, each day sinking deeper into the pit of isolation. I am surrounded by faces, words, and gestures, yet I have never felt more alone. How can it be that the very presence of others can make the void inside me feel even more immense? They say the human condition is one of connection, but what if you’re the one lost in translation, unable to bridge that gulf between yourself and the world around you?


People talk, offer advice, fill the air with their well-meaning clichés, but they don’t see the weight I carry. They tell me that everything will be okay, that I just need to keep moving forward, but they don’t understand that every step feels like sinking into quicksand. They call me selfish for wanting to disappear, for craving an end to this existence. But what do they know of this kind of exhaustion—the kind that pulls at your bones, dragging you down inch by inch?


It is easy to label something as cowardly when you’ve never stood at the edge of that particular abyss. It is simple to call someone selfish when you’ve never had to claw your way through days that stretch on with no promise of relief. They speak of hope, of brighter days, but hope feels like an illusion—a mirage that always vanishes the moment I think I’m close enough to grasp it.


I wake up each morning to the same weight on my chest, the same ache in my heart. The mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize anymore—someone tired, someone worn down by years of trying to fit into a world that doesn’t seem to want her. The faces I pass on the street are a blur, and the conversations I overhear might as well be in a foreign language. There is a disconnect so profound that it feels like I am trapped in my own personal purgatory, surrounded by people yet utterly, utterly alone.


I think back to moments when I believed that maybe things would change. But the truth is, the darkness never truly leaves—it just retreats into the corners, waiting for the right moment to re-emerge, stronger than before. And in those moments, it’s hard not to question the point of it all. Why keep going when each day feels like a rerun of the same pain, the same emptiness?


I wish I could wait for it to end. But I know better than that now. The end, they say, is something you can’t choose—not without becoming what they call “selfish.” But the truth is, there’s a kind of bravery in admitting you’re tired of fighting, isn’t there? A certain honesty in acknowledging that this world was not built for everyone, that some of us get lost along the way and never quite find our footing again.


I don’t know what tomorrow holds, and I can’t promise that I’ll keep pretending everything is okay. I can’t promise that I’ll keep masking this unbearable solitude with smiles and small talk. What I do know is that right now, in this moment, the darkness feels insurmountable. And maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to stop running from it.