Chemi
*.✧ Que Sera, Sera ✧.* | 25y/o fem
- Nov 25, 2025
- 181
I'm unraveling, thread by thread, and the mental storm inside me won't let up long enough for me to catch my breath.
My mind turned against me decades ago, twisting every thought into a knot of despair, leaving me trapped in a cage I built from my own fears. Depression didn't knock. It kicked the door down and never left after you left me, my bestie. Anxiety claws at my throat every waking second, turning simple moments into battles I'm too exhausted to fight. I am watching the world spin on without me. Friends laughing over coffee, lovers entangling their hearts, my brothers starting families and building futures, and I'm just a ghost on the sidelines, invisible and aching to join but forever locked out by the isolation that all kinds of trauma carved into my soul.
I wasn't there for my best friend when she needed me most. Too lost in my own suicidal and depressed fog to hear her pleas. She died terrified and very brutally, and I know me switching schools pushed her over the edge. Bullying shattered her, but my betrayal sealed it. That guilt wakes me screaming, a constant echo in the quiet hours. Maybe if I hadn't seen her last moments, I would be okay by now, but instead, it will forever leave a planet-sized hole in my soul.
But instead of help dealing with this trauma as a child, I had to keep it secret. My father was never emotionally supportive of me, and my Mom was never home. I never had a parent I could vent to or ask for help, and if I did, I got just made fun of for being a crybaby. I stripped my self-worth before I even knew what it was, leaving me so hollow and convinced I'd poison anyone who got close.
Friends slipped away one by one, overdoses, accidents, or even more suicides, and their ghosts haunt me, whispering that I could've saved them if I weren't so broken. The drugs I turned to for escape only amplified the chaos, turning whispers into roars until my brain was a battlefield of addiction and regret.
But even worse than drugs was my addiction to cutting. It was the only language my body still understood when my mind went mute. The blade was a translator: Every cut that popped my skin open into a gaping canyon was the most non-sexual orgasmic sensation I could dream of. I couldn't wait for the next one, and the next, and the next… The sting was proof that something inside me could still feel, even if all the feeling was pain. It was finally in control when everything else was chaos. @wishiwasalittlecool described it perfectly as carpet bombing with cuts.
Despite everything, I tried seemingly everything to claw my way back during the last decade. Therapy sessions that blurred into years, like a dozen psych ward stays, none of which helped for long, if at all. Meds that numbed the edges but never touched the core rot. I want happiness so badly, but my trauma never fades. It just festers, turning every memory into a fresh wound.
Isolation is my prison now. I sit alone in the same room, day after day, too fractured to connect, too worthless to contribute. Society moves on, and I'm left staring at screens, envying lives I'll never touch. People still ask me about future plans. Christmas, trips, gatherings, dreams, my upcoming surgery, and I fake a smile while knowing I'll fade before they happen.
I never got to wake up without the dread of another day in this mental hell.
I wish I'd been born with a quieter mind.
I wish I were oblivious enough to ignore the misery gnawing at me.
I wish I could flip a switch and silence the noise for just a moment, breathe without the weight of all this accumulated pain.
Trauma and isolation have hollowed me out, left me desperate for the peace that only the end can bring. I'm writing goodbyes no one my age should have to pen, folding the memories I can still cling to, preparing for the silence I've craved.
I'm so damn tired.
I'm so sorry to everyone I let down.
I just really want the hurting to stop.
AAAA
My mind turned against me decades ago, twisting every thought into a knot of despair, leaving me trapped in a cage I built from my own fears. Depression didn't knock. It kicked the door down and never left after you left me, my bestie. Anxiety claws at my throat every waking second, turning simple moments into battles I'm too exhausted to fight. I am watching the world spin on without me. Friends laughing over coffee, lovers entangling their hearts, my brothers starting families and building futures, and I'm just a ghost on the sidelines, invisible and aching to join but forever locked out by the isolation that all kinds of trauma carved into my soul.
I wasn't there for my best friend when she needed me most. Too lost in my own suicidal and depressed fog to hear her pleas. She died terrified and very brutally, and I know me switching schools pushed her over the edge. Bullying shattered her, but my betrayal sealed it. That guilt wakes me screaming, a constant echo in the quiet hours. Maybe if I hadn't seen her last moments, I would be okay by now, but instead, it will forever leave a planet-sized hole in my soul.
But instead of help dealing with this trauma as a child, I had to keep it secret. My father was never emotionally supportive of me, and my Mom was never home. I never had a parent I could vent to or ask for help, and if I did, I got just made fun of for being a crybaby. I stripped my self-worth before I even knew what it was, leaving me so hollow and convinced I'd poison anyone who got close.
Friends slipped away one by one, overdoses, accidents, or even more suicides, and their ghosts haunt me, whispering that I could've saved them if I weren't so broken. The drugs I turned to for escape only amplified the chaos, turning whispers into roars until my brain was a battlefield of addiction and regret.
But even worse than drugs was my addiction to cutting. It was the only language my body still understood when my mind went mute. The blade was a translator: Every cut that popped my skin open into a gaping canyon was the most non-sexual orgasmic sensation I could dream of. I couldn't wait for the next one, and the next, and the next… The sting was proof that something inside me could still feel, even if all the feeling was pain. It was finally in control when everything else was chaos. @wishiwasalittlecool described it perfectly as carpet bombing with cuts.
Despite everything, I tried seemingly everything to claw my way back during the last decade. Therapy sessions that blurred into years, like a dozen psych ward stays, none of which helped for long, if at all. Meds that numbed the edges but never touched the core rot. I want happiness so badly, but my trauma never fades. It just festers, turning every memory into a fresh wound.
Isolation is my prison now. I sit alone in the same room, day after day, too fractured to connect, too worthless to contribute. Society moves on, and I'm left staring at screens, envying lives I'll never touch. People still ask me about future plans. Christmas, trips, gatherings, dreams, my upcoming surgery, and I fake a smile while knowing I'll fade before they happen.
I never got to wake up without the dread of another day in this mental hell.
I wish I'd been born with a quieter mind.
I wish I were oblivious enough to ignore the misery gnawing at me.
I wish I could flip a switch and silence the noise for just a moment, breathe without the weight of all this accumulated pain.
Trauma and isolation have hollowed me out, left me desperate for the peace that only the end can bring. I'm writing goodbyes no one my age should have to pen, folding the memories I can still cling to, preparing for the silence I've craved.
I'm so damn tired.
I'm so sorry to everyone I let down.
I just really want the hurting to stop.
AAAA
