«To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a dream.»
honestly? i've been thinking about how long people actually stick around.
not in a dramatic way. just… observing.
when you're losing yourself - not all at once, but slowly, the way depression does - maintaining basic social functions starts feeling like a part-time job you never signed up for. replying to texts? gaming together? going outside? yeah, good luck with that.
at some point, your friends stop asking to hang out. they just… show up at your place. because that's the only version of you that still exists. the one who can't leave the couch. calls turn into a couple of texts a day. and even those feel like lifting weights.
and here's the thing: solitude starts feeling like a lifeline. not because you want to be alone. but because small talk becomes physically painful. someone asks "how was your day?" and you freeze. what do you even say? the truth? that you spent 4 hours staring at the ceiling? that eating felt like a chore?
so you don't say anything. or you lie. and then you feel guilty for lying. and then you feel guilty for being a downer. and then you feel guilty for feeling guilty.
it's exhausting. for you. but also - and this is the part nobody talks about - for them.
your people. the ones who actually care. they're walking on eggshells 24/7. they don't know how to act. if they push, you might break. if they give space, you might disappear completely. they're trying so hard not to lose you, and you're watching them try, and it just makes you feel worse.
because you know you're not fun anymore. you're not interesting. you're just… heavy. a black hole dressed as their friend.
and the worst part?
at some point, you stop caring whether they stay or go. not in a tough way. in an empty way. your phone could be silent for days and you wouldn't even notice. or you would notice, and you'd feel nothing. and that nothingness is somehow scarier than the sadness.
you look back and realize: oh. i'm gonna end up alone. not because people are bad. but because you can't stop the process. you can't fake being okay anymore. and without the mask, there's not much left that knows how to hold a conversation. or a friendship. or a life.
and the worst thing? you see it happening. in slow motion. and you just… can't reach out to stop it.
not in a dramatic way. just… observing.
when you're losing yourself - not all at once, but slowly, the way depression does - maintaining basic social functions starts feeling like a part-time job you never signed up for. replying to texts? gaming together? going outside? yeah, good luck with that.
at some point, your friends stop asking to hang out. they just… show up at your place. because that's the only version of you that still exists. the one who can't leave the couch. calls turn into a couple of texts a day. and even those feel like lifting weights.
and here's the thing: solitude starts feeling like a lifeline. not because you want to be alone. but because small talk becomes physically painful. someone asks "how was your day?" and you freeze. what do you even say? the truth? that you spent 4 hours staring at the ceiling? that eating felt like a chore?
so you don't say anything. or you lie. and then you feel guilty for lying. and then you feel guilty for being a downer. and then you feel guilty for feeling guilty.
it's exhausting. for you. but also - and this is the part nobody talks about - for them.
your people. the ones who actually care. they're walking on eggshells 24/7. they don't know how to act. if they push, you might break. if they give space, you might disappear completely. they're trying so hard not to lose you, and you're watching them try, and it just makes you feel worse.
because you know you're not fun anymore. you're not interesting. you're just… heavy. a black hole dressed as their friend.
and the worst part?
at some point, you stop caring whether they stay or go. not in a tough way. in an empty way. your phone could be silent for days and you wouldn't even notice. or you would notice, and you'd feel nothing. and that nothingness is somehow scarier than the sadness.
you look back and realize: oh. i'm gonna end up alone. not because people are bad. but because you can't stop the process. you can't fake being okay anymore. and without the mask, there's not much left that knows how to hold a conversation. or a friendship. or a life.
and the worst thing? you see it happening. in slow motion. and you just… can't reach out to stop it.