Health and Wellness Failures Stories - page 11

i’ve been feeling pretty damn blue lately. like, you ever wake up and just feel that weight in your chest? yeah, that’s me every day at 31. life just feels like one big sad song, you know? it’s like a slow, dragging beat that never picks up. work is a grind, relationships are exhausting, and the future? yeah, doesn’t look too bright. sometimes i just sit and think, “what's the point of all this?” i mean, bills are piling up, and my social life? non-existent. it’s just me and my Netflix account, binge-watching shows that are way too relatable. i swear, sometimes i think i’m just one existential crisis away from throwing in the towel. maybe i should just start a self-help book club called “Let’s Complain About Life” or something; it’d probably be packed!

then there’s this constant vibe of not being good enough. like, you ever feel like everyone is moving ahead while you’re just stuck in quicksand? it’s no surprise i’m sipping on these sad lattes instead of something stronger. don’t get me wrong, i have friends, but they’re all busy living their lives, and i’m just here, scrolling through social media and feeling like an outsider looking in. “why do i bother?" is a question that pops into my head a lot. maybe that’s the issue - not even sure what’s next or if there's a next! it’s just exhausting trying to keep my head above water. i guess this is my moment to vent, huh? anyone else relate to this bluesy vibe? 😩

i started drawing again last week after months of avoiding it like the plague, and yeah, it wasn’t some miraculous recovery arc or inspirational movie moment, it was just me sitting there with my shitty pencils and a wrinkled sketchbook trying not to panic over whether the lines were “good enough” or if the proportions matched human anatomy—or whatever. no music, no cozy candles, just raw silence and this constant tightness in my chest that made me want to rip everything apart. drawing used to be easy, like second nature, something automatic; now it’s like diffusing a bomb while blindfolded. every mark feels like a risk. it’s ridiculous. i know it. “don’t overthink it,” people say, as if that ever stopped anyone with anxiety from spiraling. still, i kept going. the first one was garbage. the second looked worse. third was somehow more insulting to the art world than the first two combined. but then the fourth? it was fine. not amazing, not portfolio-worthy, but fine. and something clicked—maybe i don’t have to be amazing at it right now. maybe it’s not about perfection anymore. maybe the point is showing up at all. i kept drawing. shaking hands and all. i’ve accepted i’ll draw like trash some days and maybe, maybe less like trash on others. who cares? who’s watching? it’s my sketchbook. my mess. my battle. and i swear, the anxiety isn’t as loud when i’m focused on shading the folds of a hoodie or aligning the pupils of some weird anime eye. it’s like tricking my brain into shutting the hell up for a second and that second is gold. have you ever tried doing that? finding a task just complicated enough to trap the anxiety behind it?

funny thing is, i showed a piece to my therapist and she said, “there’s tension in your linework but also progress. it’s expressive.” i didn’t even know what the hell that meant but it made me feel less like a failure. one drawing at a time, i feel more in control. not of life, not of anxiety, but of something. and that matters. people talk about exposure therapy all the time, but they never mention that sometimes it looks like sitting in your room sketching a hand over and over until your brain lets you breathe. you want to know what helps more than affirmations and breathing exercises?? mechanical pencils. no joke. the crispness, the control, the lack of sharpening... godsend. i’m not saying art cures anxiety, don’t get it twisted. i’m saying it gives it less space to spread. you ever tried screaming with a pencil in your mouth and both hands smudged in graphite?? me neither, but that’s kinda what it feels like. controlled chaos. beautiful distraction. controlled distraction, even. i still freak out sometimes while drawing—like if the paper gets smudged wrong or if i suddenly hate the nose i’ve spent 30 minutes on—but it passes. like waves. drawing became my anchor. my unintentional mindfulness tool. not because i wanted it to be, but because it just ended up that way; the only thing keeping me grounded when my chest is tight and my mind is screaming “what if?? what if?? what if??” over and over like a broken fire alarm. i know some people use journaling or running or god forbid, talking to others—but for me, it’s this. rough lines. smudges. messy scribbles. maybe ugly, maybe not. i’m not doing this for likes or validation. i’m doing this to breathe. maybe that’s enough. maybe that’s the whole point.

It starts in the morning, even before I’m fully awake. That subtle tightness in my chest, like a hand hovering just over my heart, not squeezing it yet but letting me know it’s there. The air feels a bit too heavy, my thoughts slightly too loud. I open my eyes and immediately scan the room, not for threats, but as if I’m checking whether the world still exists the way I left it the night before. I convince myself it does, but something still doesn’t sit right. This isn’t a panic attack—those I know well. This is something else, quieter but more persistent. A low hum in the background of everything I do. Some mornings it fades by lunch. Others, it sticks, lurking in the corners of my brain like a storm that never breaks. I go to work, interact with people, smile politely, laugh even. But internally, I brace. For what? I have no clue. That’s what makes it worse. It’s like my body knows a secret my mind can’t access.

I don’t catastrophize events; I’m not the kind of person who assumes the worst. I’m grounded in logic, in fact, in reason. But still, this eerie anticipation of disaster follows me around like a shadow. I’ll be walking down the street, enjoying the breeze, and suddenly be gripped with the sense that someone I love is about to die. Or that something irreversible will happen. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—but more like I’m emotionally prepped for a call that says, “It’s too late now.” And I hate how familiar that feels. The worst part is, I don’t have any evidence for this constant dread. Nothing’s happened. Nothing is happening. My life, objectively speaking, is stable. I have a job, I pay my bills, I eat my vegetables. But somehow, I’m never really relaxed. Even in moments of supposed peace, I’m scanning for signs. Is that a weird sound from the fridge or is it going to catch fire? Did my sister sound off on the phone or is she hiding something serious? And this isn’t about control or anxiety management. It’s just this cold, nauseating certainty that something is coming, something I can't see.

People say to focus on what you can control, right? Do the deep breathing, get enough sleep, maybe even journal it out. But I’ve tried. And I do these things not because I expect them to fix me, but because I want to believe I’m not passively waiting for doom to arrive. The dread still seeps in though, like fog under a door. I don’t think this feeling makes me broken, but it does make me tired. Chronically. It’s exhausting to live like a warning siren that never gets turned off. Friends tell me I need a vacation. Maybe I do. But how do you rest when your gut keeps telling you the world’s about to tilt on its axis? I don’t want to be one of those people who walks around acting like they’re psychic, like they just “feel” things—but I can’t ignore the part of me that believes there’s truth in this fear. A truth I don’t want to discover too late.

Am I the only one who lives with this kind of mental static? That quiet, persistent buzz of existential alarm? Maybe someone out there can relate to what I’m saying. Or maybe I’m just oversensitive, overaware, overwired. But what if I’m not? What if this strange intuition is actually a warning I’m supposed to heed? I don’t even know what I would do differently if I knew for sure something bad was about to happen; I already walk on eggshells with everything I love. This isn’t a cry for help or attention—it’s more like logging an observation, like documenting a pattern that no one else can see. And I just wish I could explain it in a way that makes sense. Because as much as I sound composed now, there are moments when the weight of this feeling is too much to carry without breaking into pieces.

i have to admit, i sometimes find myself scrolling through porn sites, looking for something to kill time or just satisfy that curiosity. it’s not like i’m addicted or anything; i could go weeks without hitting that play button. but when i do, it makes me wonder if it’s bad for me? i mean, i can’t be the only one questioning this, right? 🤔 every time i watch something, i feel a bit guilty, like there’s this nagging voice in the back of my head, telling me it's a waste of time. is it lowering my standards for real-life intimacy, or is it just a normal thing to do for a dude my age?

most of what i see is so exaggerated and just plain ridiculous. these people look unreal, and it makes me think if i’m ever going to meet someone who’s got that kind of body or skills. i mean, do i have unrealistic expectations now? who knows? all those perfect angles and lighting make the whole thing seem so fake. yet, here i am, clicking on the thumbnails, falling into that same trap over and over. sometimes, after i’m done, i feel like i’ve wasted a good chunk of my evening, just staring at a screen when i could’ve been hanging out with my friends or playing video games. 🤦‍♂️

the whole industry seems messed up too, like there’s a lot of sketchy stuff happening behind the scenes. consent issues, exploitation, and all that nonsense. it’s kinda hard to enjoy something knowing that there could be some dark underbelly involved. should i be feeling guilty for watching? am i just supporting a system that thrives on all of that? it’s tough to reconcile the enjoyment of something that may have such a questionable ethical side. i guess i sometimes feel like a hypocrite, trying to digest content that could potentially harm someone else. ugh.

and let’s be real, when i compare it with actual physical connections with people, it’s a whole different ballgame. yeah, seeing hot stuff online is fun, but can’t match the thrill of actually being with someone. so, is it really worth it? it’s like, am i trading real experiences for something so artificial? what’s the point? at the end of the day, i think it might just boil down to personal choice. but honestly, i’m curious about what everyone else thinks. is porn bad or what? are we just using it as a coping mechanism or is there something deeper going on? let’s talk about it. 💭

I don't know why I had to endure the treatment I endured. I feel like I lived surrounded by pure monsters, by people who wanted to change my life, who didn't love me. I don't know why I had to live through something like that. What did I do to the world to have to live through something like that? I had to put everyone in their place. It's as if they'd been waiting a long time for the day this would happen. I'd never seen such vengeful intent on the part of my family. I feel like it was the worst, on the part of medicine, on the part of the world.

I didn't understand why the hell the world turned against me. What did I do? I just wanted to be free from everyone. Why this eagerness to grab me? Do they think that because I'm a family member, I'm doomed to receive their punishment? They're all crazy. How many after-effects didn't they leave me with? How much did I have to write to survive the after-effects? So that these things wouldn't affect me in the future. And the psychiatrist ignores this! Why did I have to walk the path alone again? I don't understand. I feel like this is a very real reality for me. I'm having a hard time processing it fully.

It brings tears to my eyes. Why did I have to fight with my family? My departure was supposed to have made them reflect on their principles, but they weren't even capable of that. They only reflected on some brutal things, trying to figure out how to intervene with me. How could I be like this? Why the hell did I encounter such a bunch of macabre people? How long will I have to live putting them in their place? Don't they have the capacity to reflect? To learn? What the hell is wrong with them? Do you have problems there or something?

It can't be that I left for three years and these people only got worse. I can't believe it. They hit me, once, twice, three times, and now a fourth time. Who the hell needs to go to a psychiatrist? Me or them? It's clear they have serious behavioral problems. The same things happen again and again. They lack the ability to learn, they seek to do things secretly, seeking to do more harm. Why do these people only improve, leading them astray? Until when? Is it that a case in them cannot be trusted? Where is the education? I find it hard to believe that this I found is a family of mine. Personally, I say it, I admit it, it can't be that I found it, it's my blood. I can't believe this is my blood. Once again, pushing them aside, to the side, happened again. Until when?

I ask myself: Do these individuals really want family? Do these individuals really want to be with me? Where is the desire that verifies it? Where is the affection? It can't be that they're going back to the same mistakes as before. It can't be. It's clear that they don't want to get out of the same situation they're in with me. They're just making excuses, they don't want to be with me, but I've had enough of them. I've given them plenty of opportunities to change; it's been enough.

I feel totally disappointed in my family members. And not just in them, but in the doctors too, who clearly haven't reflected one bit on what happened, nothing short of a sad act of heroism. Where is a reflective world? It's impossible that no one has shared the cause of this explosion with them, it can't be. And they're healthcare workers! I can't stand these professionals any longer. Do they know how to socialize? If that's the case, it should apply to all cases, not just a select few. It's in diversity that things are seen. But what do I have to do with them? I don't see anything, I don't see effort, I don't see reflection. Where is the brainpower to move the world forward?

I feel deeply outraged. It's impossible that to this day someone suggested I celebrate Mother's Day again, as an adult, and also without knowing the circumstances, and also as someone who cares for children, and not just her, but also another who is a teacher. Why have I surrounded myself with these kinds of people? Where's the capacity for reflection? Are we just going to support the maintenance of a family structure? What if it's a façade, as is often the case, for the perpetuation of crime by one of its thousands of agents? Where's even the conscience of the citizenry? Frankly, I don't understand.

Is this what many people I've grown accustomed to wanted in people? These people are capable of bringing down a country. Am I going to be with them? For that, I'd rather pack my bags and leave forever, or at least, if I were to experience that, have the satisfaction of knowing that it was going to happen, and then formulate a support plan, but only by following the matter closely. That's being preemptive! Why does no one want to see that? Is that why no one wants to know what's going on in the environment, the people there? I mean, do I have to join them in that fall? It's not fair, I don't have to pay for the unconsciousness of others.

So, here I am, sitting in my messy room, trying to figure out if I’m just some person who’s a little slow on the uptake when it comes to feelings or if I’m actually asexual. To be honest, I really don’t know. I mean, I’m 17, and all my friends are out there exploring their “sexual awakenings” or whatever they call it, but for me, it’s like a big ol’ void. Like, I don’t even know what I’m missing. I get that everyone’s on this wild ride of hormones and romantic entanglements, and there’s me, standing on the sidelines like I’m stuck at a video game level that won’t load. My friends casually toss around terms like “crush” and “hookup” while I'm over here thinking, “why bother?” It’s like I’m reading a manual in a different language that nobody thought to translate for me.

The other day, my buddy was all hyped up about this girl he liked, and he was telling me what he thought would happen. He kept dropping lines about “chemistry” and “sparks,” and I just couldn’t relate. Every time I hear someone say, “you’ll know when it happens,” I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised I don’t see my brain. I mean, what does that even mean? Do I need to sacrifice a goat or something to get this so-called “spark”? I’ve tried to be interested; I’ve flicked through dating apps, swiped here and there, and honestly, it feels like a chore. Like, I’m trying to watch a movie that everyone claims is a masterpiece, but I’m just sitting there wondering when the good part starts. My mind wanders to the definition of asexuality, and I catch myself thinking that maybe I fit that description. But then I wonder—am I just overthinking, or is it real? Am I just taking a little longer to get to the party?

I’ve read enough articles, seen plenty of videos to know that asexuality isn’t just “being picky” or something you grow out of when you hit puberty; it's a legitimate orientation. But it gnaws at me. Am I really asexual or just a late bloomer who’s scared of rejection? I mean, every time the topic of sex comes up, my brain goes into this autopilot mode where I’m nodding along, but inside I’m just screaming, “This isn't for me!” It feels like I’m meant to be a part of this club, but they won’t let me through the door, and I’m honestly starting to think I might not even want to go in. Maybe that’s the crux of it—this nagging feeling that says, “why do I have to be labeled at all?” So, dear reader, I turn this back to you: Am I asexual, just confused, or frankly, who cares? Do you ever feel this disconnect, or is it just me spiraling down this rabbit hole?

I'm currently at work. I do research for a travel provider in my local area. Today I was interviewing passengers on the metro system but before I can start, I have to count all the passengers that come through my assigned door. I was mid-count when one of our ticket inspectors told me to move for a disabled passenger because I was standing in the wheelchair area absentmindedly. She pulled a face and gave me dirty looks for the remainder of her time on the metro and was doing the same when she got off. It wasn't a major issue and I moved immediately because I was in the way but her tone and glaring made me so angry. I wanted to scream at her and hit something. I just wanted to explode and it was completely out of proportion. Then on the same trip we had a fare dodger who refused to leave when he was caught. The team members let him stay on the metro despite travelling without a valid fare. I was mad at the staff for giving up so easily but I just wanted to attack the dodger. I'm a fair large person and all I could picture in my head was repeatedly kicking this man in the head. Again, irrational anger. The staff are not obligated to remove fare dodgers when they get aggressive, which he was. And wanting to beat a man to death for being a cheap, scumbag is excessive. But I keep having these thoughts of disproportionate rage whenever a situation arises. I regularly fantasize about murdering my neighbour after he threatened me a year ago. What the hell is wrong with me?

So here I am, 23 years old, sitting on my couch at 6 AM, scrolling through my phone like the rest of the world, and I can’t help but wonder if doing some morning yoga could actually help me chill out a bit, you know? Work has been an absolute circus lately—endless deadlines, demanding bosses, and that annoying coworker who “just loves to chat” while I’m trying to concentrate! Ugh! On top of that, my home life isn't exactly a zen garden either. It’s like a tornado of chores, family drama, and oh, let’s not forget the never-ending battle with my own mental health; I don’t need to tell you how exhausting that can be. Someone once said, “When you find peace within yourself, you become the kind of person who can live at peace with others.” Is that true? Because at this point, I’d just like to be at peace without screaming at the top of my lungs. I keep hearing about how morning yoga is supposed to be this miracle cure-all for stress, but honestly, I can’t get over my own skepticism. I mean, sure, there’s something appealing about stretching out my tight muscles, especially when I’ve been hunched over my laptop for way too long—but will it really help? Every time I think about it, I picture myself in a yoga class, all zen and serene, looking like a complete novice! Have you seen how those yoga influencers contort themselves? Like, what even is that? And let’s not forget the smell of essential oils—it’s either heavenly or a total headache! I can just imagine showing up with my “I do yoga” sweatpants and completely whiffing a pose. People in the room would probably roll their eyes at me. “Girl, just breathe,” they’d probably whisper while I’m over there struggling to keep my balance. Yet, I feel like I should give it a try. Couldn’t I use a bit of that whole “namaste” vibe in my chaotic life? But then I wonder: could I actually commit to doing it regularly? I’m already 10 minutes late to everything, and adding a morning yoga routine to my schedule seems like a tall order, doesn’t it? I could see it now: me, madly trying to fit in downward dog before I rush out the door, only to be late again because I lost track of time trying to “find my center.” Lo and behold, my chaotic mornings would just get more chaotic! Would it really set a positive tone for the rest of my day, or just make me more irritable when I can’t get everything done in time? So many questions! I could just start with simple stretches at home—maybe throw on a YouTube video and pretend I know what I'm doing, right? They say even a few minutes of mindfulness can lead to better stress management; just breathe and focus, they say. But I find it hard to relax when my mind races with a thousand thoughts about what I didn’t do and what I still need to do. Like, why is life such a juggling act? Is it too much to ask for a little bit of balance? Probably, because let’s face it: my life has been more of a tightrope walk than a yoga class! I can't even tell you how often I've tried to squeeze in self-care, and yet, here I am, still feeling wound up like a string on a bow. But, as I delve more into this whole yoga idea, there's this nagging voice in my head pushing me to try something new, you know? "Step out of your comfort zone," it whispers. Maybe I really could use some calm in my mornings, even if I end up looking ridiculous and flailing about as my cat watches on, probably judging me, has anyone ever felt that? For some weird reason, I feel like I owe it to myself to at least give morning yoga a shot; who knows, it might even make me a better person at work and home. Plus, wouldn't it be awesome to actually have a chill start to the day instead of bursting out the door like a caffeinated squirrel? I'm still on the fence about it—do I really want to give it a go, or just keep watching random memes on my phone until the last second? Maybe if I push myself to get up a lil' early? I mean, the thought of being able to say I do yoga does sound kind of badass. And hey, I’m all about trying to make my chaotic life feel a little less chaotic; is it crazy to think that morning yoga might just hold the answer I've been looking for? Anyone out there make it work in their routine? I need help deciding here; should I take the plunge and roll out a mat, or keep dreaming of that blissful morning peace while I slip back into the chaos that is my reality?

As I sit here reflecting on my life, I cannot help but confront the pervasive sensations of existential dread that have accompanied me throughout my existence. Being 31 years old, a male navigating the complexities of adulthood, has brought forth a cavalcade of thoughts that often orbit around philosophical quandaries and abstract concepts that seem to hold me in a vice-like grip, compelling me to analyze every facet of my reality, both past and present. In a world where the mundane often shrouds the profound, I find myself ensnared in an endless loop of ruminations, particularly those that provoke anxiety surrounding my own existence, the nature of reality, and the elusive meaning of life itself. For instance, I was recently walking in the park—a typical Saturday outing to decompress after a taxing week—when I stumbled upon a seemingly innocuous tree, its branches swaying gently in the breeze, yet my thoughts spiraled into an intricate analysis of its existence: Was this tree merely a transient anomaly in the grand scheme of the universe, serving no greater purpose than aesthetic pleasure for the passerby? Or did it embody an essential piece of a larger cosmic puzzle, contributing to the ecological systems that sustain life on Earth? These dilemmas circulate in my mind like a hamster on a wheel, never quite yielding the clarity I so desperately seek. Coupled with these musings are the persistent obsessions that arise from my experience with OCD, a condition that amplifies my tendencies toward overthinking everything that might seem trivial to another—like the cycle of life and death, the inevitability of decay, and, perhaps most dauntingly, the question of whether I am truly living authentically or merely going through the motions dictated by societal expectations. I often wonder whether others grapple with similar sentiments; might they find themselves staring into the abyss of their own thoughts, lost in contemplation about the purpose of their existence? During one particularly trying episode, I recall sitting at a café, attempting to savor my espresso while the cacophony of voices around me morphed into a philosophical dialogue of its own, leading me to ponder the vastness of the universe and my infinitesimal, seemingly inconsequential role within it. Is it possible that I am just another fleeting consciousness amidst an unforgiving cosmos, merely existing rather than truly living? Yet, while these thoughts may initially seem daunting, I have come to realize that acknowledging such existential questions can catalyze growth and introspection. I have learned that challenging oneself to navigate through these labyrinthine thoughts can lead to an enriched understanding of my own beliefs and values, often prompting me to realign my priorities and appreciate the sheer beauty of fleeting moments—like the laughter of a friend or a stunning sunrise illuminating the horizon. Amidst this internal chaos, I find solace in the notion that there is something inherently human about grappling with uncertainty and the quest for meaning; it binds us together as we navigate a shared experience defined by our complexities. As I confront my existential OCD, I recognize the potential beauty in vulnerability, for it carries the promise of connection and growth. Whether through conversations with friends or moments of solitude, I have discovered that vulnerability can engender resilience, allowing us to confront our deepest fears and emerge stronger, even amid uncertainty. Thus, I encourage you, dear reader, to embrace the electromagnetic spectrum of emotions and thoughts that accompany the human experience; perhaps you, too, can take a moment to reflect on what it means to exist in a world that often feels overwhelmingly vast. In doing so, we might find ourselves embarking on a journey toward understanding and acceptance, realizing that even in the face of existential quandaries, there is hope and beauty to be found. In a strange way, is it not this very struggle that lends color and meaning to our lives, offering us the opportunity to define our own significance in this unpredictable adventure we call life?

lately, i find myself caught off guard by my reactions to even the smallest events. it's strange how watching a sentimental TikTok or hearing a slightly critical comment from a friend sends my emotions spiraling. some days i feel utterly indifferent to everything, while on others, i’m ridiculously sensitive, crying over trivialities that i wouldn’t usually bat an eyelash at. maybe it’s hormones, or perhaps this is simply what being a teenager entails. still, the inconsistency of my emotional state makes me question whether something more profound might be at play here. do other people my age feel this overwhelmed by basic, everyday situations, or am i just overly dramatic?

it's weird how sometimes emotions just hit differently, right? like yesterday, i was joking around with my bestie when she casually said something about how i take things too seriously. she wasn't even mean about it, just teasing me like usual. yet somehow, that casual remark lingered with me the entire day, making me feel unexpectedly inadequate and overly self-conscious. logically, i understand it was harmless banter, nothing worth dwelling upon, yet emotionally, it felt disproportionately impactful. later, scrolling through my socials, i came across a meme about being overly emotional, and instead of laughing it off, i genuinely related and felt comforted knowing others might feel similarly conflicted. it’s bizarre, isn’t it, how quickly emotions fluctuate from laughter to near tears, leaving you wondering if your reactions are typical teenage turbulence or indicative of deeper insecurities you haven't addressed?

sometimes i try stepping back, analyzing my emotional patterns objectively, hoping to uncover why i'm experiencing these drastic emotional shifts. perhaps i should consider external factors—lack of sleep, academic pressure, or social dynamics—as they undoubtedly influence mental equilibrium. additionally, adolescence inherently entails emotional instability, thus explaining why minor stressors trigger exaggerated reactions. despite acknowledging this logically, the sensation remains intensely personal and often isolating. so, here i am, articulating these thoughts to strangers online, hoping someone else might resonate and reassure me that feeling emotionally overwhelmed occasionally doesn't signify weakness or abnormality; rather, it merely highlights our shared human fragility. do any of you experience this emotional rollercoaster, and if so, how do you typically navigate these confusing, unpredictable feelings?

It was a sunny day when I first found myself under the water, feeling the panic rise in my chest like a tidal wave. Just a regular swim day, you know? But then I slipped. The water enveloped me, and for a brief moment, everything turned dark. I thought I was going to die, honestly! My thoughts just raced—what does it feel like to drown? Is it like suffocating? Or is it calm, like falling asleep? I could feel my lungs screaming for air, yet all I could do was flail and hope for someone to pull me up. Every desperate grasp for air felt hopeless, and I realized in that instant how fragile life truly is. You never think it'll happen to you until it does... right? 😨

But wait! Not all was lost, as if by some miracle, I felt a strong arm wrap around me and pulled me to the surface. It was the most incredible feeling, breaking through the surface and gasping for air! The pure relief was overwhelming. I choked, sputtered, and took in the bright sunshine that I had been missing. Suddenly, every struggle I faced under the surface felt worth it, somehow. It’s like I got a second chance, you know?! I learned to appreciate each breath as if it were my last! The water that had once terrified me now felt like a strange friend that taught me a lesson about resilience. Isn’t it funny how life throws stuff at you that you never expect? 🌊

Looking back, drowning wasn't just about feeling fragile; it was also about emerging stronger. I mean, now I look at water differently. I respect it, yes, but I also embrace it. I’ve taken swimming lessons since then, and I’m no longer afraid. Instead of seeing it as a threat, I’ve learned how to navigate through the waves! Each splash reminds me of my near-drowning experience, but it also fuels my desire to conquer my fears. So, isn’t it something? To feel new life after a near-death experience? 🌈 Do you think we can emerge stronger after facing our fears, or does it leave us more cautious? I hope everyone out there can find their path to recovery like I did! Keep swimming, because life’s currents may be rough, but we are stronger than we think!!! 💪

Every morning, I wake up with the same thoughts swirling around in my mind. I drag myself out of bed, caught in the battle between wanting to feel good about myself and being overwhelmed by a sense of inadequacy. I walk to the bathroom, avoid looking in the mirror, afraid that this reflection will echo the familiar voice doubting me—“You don’t fit into those jeans anymore, do you?” “How did you end up here?” I know I’m not technically “overweight” according to the BMI charts or what society deems as the standard, but God, do I feel heavy. It seems every little thing weighs me down. I don’t understand; I eat relatively well, have an exercise routine, and yet my mind still holds onto the narrative that I’m not enough, that I’m not the fit and vibrant version of myself that I used to be.

The kicker? Social media. I scroll through impossibly perfect images of other women who seem to have it all figured out—gorgeous outfits, flawless skin, flawless abs. Meanwhile, I’m over here in sweatpants, scrolling through my feed at 11 p.m., munching on a bag of chips. I know rationally that these posts don't reflect reality, but I can't help but measure myself against them. Every “like” I didn’t get feels like a reminder that I’m somehow less desirable or less worthy. Sometimes, I find myself wondering, do other women feel this way? Am I alone in thinking I should look like that, feeling this constant sense of dissatisfaction with my appearance? It’s exhausting. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but the feeling keeps creeping back in—an unwelcome visitor that never really leaves. In those quiet moments before sleep tugs me under, I find myself asking, why do I feel fat? Am I simply a victim of society's skewed standards, or is this really about something deeper within me?

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and to be honest, I’m a bit confused. I’m a 28-year-old guy who identifies as bisexual, but I keep hearing people talking about pansexuality and it’s making me question what I really know about my own identity. I mean, I’ve always thought of bisexuality as being attracted to two or more genders, while pansexuality seems to be more about being attracted to people regardless of gender. But does that mean pansexuals are more open, or am I just overthinking this? Like, can you even clearly define the difference between the two, or are they just different labels people use to describe similar feelings? I’ve had friends tell me that it really comes down to personal choice and how someone relates to their own attractions, but I don’t want to assume that my experience as bisexual is the same as someone else’s experience as pansexual. It’s honestly exhausting, and maybe I need to just chill out a bit, but these identities feel so fluid and I just want to understand them better.

I remember talking to this girl I met at a party who identified as pansexual, and it was kind of an enlightening experience. She talked about how she feels attracted to people based on their personality over their gender. It made me think about my own preferences and if I truly limit myself, or if I'm just as open as she is but with a different label. Sometimes I catch myself questioning if there’s a right way to identify, like should I be more fluid or should I stick to how I’ve identified for years? It’s frustrating because I certainly don’t want to misrepresent myself, but it also feels like there’s this constant pressure to define myself in a way that makes sense to others. Are these labels helping us connect, or are we just complicating things? If you’re reading this, what do you all think? Is there really a significant difference between being bisexual and pansexual, or is it just a matter of semantics? What’s your experience with these identities?

Have you ever sat in your room, staring at the blank wall while the world outside continues its relentless pace, and wondered why you even bother to wake up each day? I mean, seriously, I'm nineteen and still asking myself this elementary question: What’s the point? Life, as I see it, feels like one stacked disappointment after another. Sometimes, I can’t help but feel like I’m just a ghost wandering through a living nightmare. Friends? Yeah, apparently I have a couple, but how many of them actually care? It’s like playing a game of pretend where everyone’s wearing masks, and I’m trapped inside my own. We laugh; we talk about pointless things that mean absolutely nothing. But deep down, I know that beneath the surface of those smiles is a sea of apathy, drifting quietly past as time ticks on. Like, do you ever get the sense that everyone is as lost as you are, but we’re just too scared to admit it? Days bleed into nights, and what do I have to show for it? A collection of half-finished projects and dreams that crumble every time I actually muster the courage to pursue them. Take school, for instance. I’m pushing through it, but I honestly can’t fathom why it matters. The grades, the pressure, the endless cycle of studies and exams—it all feels so trivial when you think about it. Not to mention the regrets that linger like smoke in the air, taunting me over lost opportunities and things I wanted to say but never did. How did I let it get this far? This overwhelming feeling of inadequacy weighs on me like an anchor, making it hard to even get out of bed some days. I mean, am I the only one who feels like I’m screaming in a crowded room and no one hears me? Sometimes the silence feels deafening. The moments between the chaotic noise of everyday life are filled with self-doubt, pulling me down into thoughts that spiral like a roller coaster out of control. Relationships are complicated, aren’t they? I see my friends dating, laughing, living lives full of passion, and I can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with me. Why can’t I find that spark, that fire that lights up the mundane? I scroll through social media, each post a reminder of what I lack. Life looks perfect through a screen, but in reality, it’s just a highlight reel, right? Are we all just actors in our own stories? I keep waiting for the moment when I finally feel alive, yet every time I think it might happen, it slips through my fingers like sand. What if all I am is a name on a list, an afterthought in someone else’s tale? I try to fill my days, consuming content, watching movies, playing videos games—it’s like I’m escaping into different universes where my real life feels even more distant. The thrilling escapades and heroic quests completely contrast the mediocrity of my existence. Yet, when the screen fades to black, I’m left alone again, confronting the echoing reality of my confusion and despair. Do you feel this way too? Like a spectator, just watching your life go by? I thought adulthood came with the promise of freedom and adventure, but here I am trapped in an existence I didn’t sign up for. At times, I think about the possible paths I could take—the ones I didn’t choose, the risks I was too scared to take. So many “what ifs” floating in my head. What if I had gone after that girl I liked in high school? What if I had taken a year off to travel? What if I actually pursued what I loved instead of what everyone else expected? We live our lives pretending to follow a script, but what’s written doesn’t reflect who we are inside. And here’s the kicker; despite all that feeling, I still wake up every day. I won’t lie and say that the night doesn’t sometimes stretch endlessly and leave me feeling hopeless, but a part of me clings to the thought that maybe, just maybe, it could get better. There’s still a glimmer of hope buried somewhere under all this confusion that tells me there has to be a reason for my existence, but for now, I’m just lost in the chaos. Who knows if I’ll ever find my way? Do you ever feel the same, or am I just rambling into the void? Why are we here? It’s a question I’m still struggling to answer.

I fucked up my maths exams today. It’s finals I can’t believe I made so made fucking small mistakes and it’s literally decreasing my marks. I EVEN TOLD MY PARENTS IT WAS WELL. I’m the only one who messed up my exams like this. I just wanna kill my self. I really wanna cry. I’m so scared to show my face to my parents.