#1 ·
I’ve posted this under the health section—mostly because I suspect these are psychological issues at this point. If anyone has any advice, similar experiences, or even just some kind of kind word... I suppose I would be grateful.
My childhood—I was the oldest, so I bore everything then, and I suppose I still do. My parents were constantly at each other's throats—they still are, actually. It’s usually about money—which we never had—but honestly, they’ll find a reason to fight even if one doesn't exist. It doesn't matter. My father is an alcoholic. His two brothers are alcoholics, too. His mother and late father were the same. We never really stayed in touch with that side of the family, which—if I'm being honest—is probably for the best. This house is enough for me. But he isn't a father—he's just a biological marker.
I've dealt with asthma my entire life—though, I suppose, it’s likely all just psychosomatic. Most illnesses seem to stem from that anyway... maybe.
Mother had more kids later—so naturally, none of these issues ever touch the younger ones, not even half the time. I was the firstborn, which meant I got to enjoy the "biggest and sweetest slice of the cake"—if you can call it that.
I'm in my twenties—working, surviving—but I've always been the odd one out. Just the black sheep, really; anxious, depressed, and perpetually uneasy, especially when stepping into unfamiliar territory. I can't seem to shake the dread—it follows me everywhere. I just don't know how to switch off, and frankly, it hurts. Making friends or even just socializing feels impossible. I find myself envying those people who can just... walk up to a stranger and start a conversation without a hint of nerves. They have these massive circles of friends where everything is just fine. Me? I only have a handful of people I can actually trust—and even then, it’s limited. I never open up about family stuff—never. My friends don't have any idea what I'm actually going through, and honestly, the shame of it is overwhelming. Every time I think about finally opening up to my best friend, I chicken out. Because I know if I actually started talking, the tears would just come—and I probably wouldn't be able to stop for hours.
I never really received the kind of parental love a child actually needs—not that I expected much—so I suppose I just keep looking for it in all the wrong places. It's a cycle, I guess.
Regarding relationships—it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone, and honestly, I haven't exactly been looking—but I suppose I never really had that typical teenage experience everyone else seems to get. I was more like a sheltered dog—just going to school and coming straight home—though there weren't any strict rules forced upon me, like being told I had to be home by a certain hour or whatever. That was my own choice, I guess; growing up in an environment defined by constant criticism and dissatisfaction tends to just... drain your will. There was never any money for extracurriculars, which probably didn't help the lack of motivation—and even when I did have music lessons, the drive for that eventually just withered away too.
I fell in love at twenty—and for a long time, too. But I suppose I was looking for too much—searching for that specific brand of happiness and affection I never really got growing up. The truth is, a partner can only offer one kind of love; they can’t possibly fulfill every single void. It made me possessive—jealous, constantly asking "where are you," "why didn't you call," "why aren't we going out," "where are you heading"... and if things didn't go my way, well, my stubbornness was legendary. I honestly wonder why anyone would put up with me like that. He did, though. I ended things. I fell out of love, unlike him—it turns out he just reminded me too much of home.
I’m pining for someone I barely even know—I guess I don't truly understand why. That brief window of time feels like a dream—something entirely surreal... that person, those moments.
I’m feeling depressed, anxious—just generally low—and honestly, I have no idea where to find any shred of motivation or positivity. It isn't about searching for love again—I know that much by now—but once you get used to having it, there really is no going back. Even after a few weeks since the breakup, I just can't stop overthinking everything. Why did it end like this? Why did I act the way I did? Why can't I just behave normally like everyone else... I guess.
So, here I am—alone, whether I'm at home or stuck at the office—just spiraling through my own thoughts. I’ve finally started opening up to my mom about everything. She tells me it’s good to talk—that I need to start being vulnerable—claiming these childhood issues will just haunt me forever if I don't face them head-on. Apparently, you have to go back to the roots. But... how? How do you actually change something that was baked into your psyche decades ago? Where does one even begin to find purpose? I see the patterns—I understand exactly what the problem is and why things turned out this way—but knowing isn't the same as changing my mindset, my thoughts, or my entire self. And honestly, the worst part is that 90% of people couldn't care less about anyone else's struggles. So why bother bothering others with your problems when most people don't want to listen, let alone help?
I went to a pilgrimage site in the Midwest because my mom insisted. I shed some tears—but that’s not the point. If I actually started weeping over everything I've been through and am still dealing with, I’d probably just die from the grief—there’s no stopping it. I'd be crying for days, weeks, months... and I realized that faith isn't my salvation. It's just not working for me. I have to keep searching.
If I keep going down this path, I'm looking at a one-way ticket to a psychiatric ward.
My childhood—I was the oldest, so I bore everything then, and I suppose I still do. My parents were constantly at each other's throats—they still are, actually. It’s usually about money—which we never had—but honestly, they’ll find a reason to fight even if one doesn't exist. It doesn't matter. My father is an alcoholic. His two brothers are alcoholics, too. His mother and late father were the same. We never really stayed in touch with that side of the family, which—if I'm being honest—is probably for the best. This house is enough for me. But he isn't a father—he's just a biological marker.
I've dealt with asthma my entire life—though, I suppose, it’s likely all just psychosomatic. Most illnesses seem to stem from that anyway... maybe.
Mother had more kids later—so naturally, none of these issues ever touch the younger ones, not even half the time. I was the firstborn, which meant I got to enjoy the "biggest and sweetest slice of the cake"—if you can call it that.
I'm in my twenties—working, surviving—but I've always been the odd one out. Just the black sheep, really; anxious, depressed, and perpetually uneasy, especially when stepping into unfamiliar territory. I can't seem to shake the dread—it follows me everywhere. I just don't know how to switch off, and frankly, it hurts. Making friends or even just socializing feels impossible. I find myself envying those people who can just... walk up to a stranger and start a conversation without a hint of nerves. They have these massive circles of friends where everything is just fine. Me? I only have a handful of people I can actually trust—and even then, it’s limited. I never open up about family stuff—never. My friends don't have any idea what I'm actually going through, and honestly, the shame of it is overwhelming. Every time I think about finally opening up to my best friend, I chicken out. Because I know if I actually started talking, the tears would just come—and I probably wouldn't be able to stop for hours.
I never really received the kind of parental love a child actually needs—not that I expected much—so I suppose I just keep looking for it in all the wrong places. It's a cycle, I guess.
Regarding relationships—it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone, and honestly, I haven't exactly been looking—but I suppose I never really had that typical teenage experience everyone else seems to get. I was more like a sheltered dog—just going to school and coming straight home—though there weren't any strict rules forced upon me, like being told I had to be home by a certain hour or whatever. That was my own choice, I guess; growing up in an environment defined by constant criticism and dissatisfaction tends to just... drain your will. There was never any money for extracurriculars, which probably didn't help the lack of motivation—and even when I did have music lessons, the drive for that eventually just withered away too.
I fell in love at twenty—and for a long time, too. But I suppose I was looking for too much—searching for that specific brand of happiness and affection I never really got growing up. The truth is, a partner can only offer one kind of love; they can’t possibly fulfill every single void. It made me possessive—jealous, constantly asking "where are you," "why didn't you call," "why aren't we going out," "where are you heading"... and if things didn't go my way, well, my stubbornness was legendary. I honestly wonder why anyone would put up with me like that. He did, though. I ended things. I fell out of love, unlike him—it turns out he just reminded me too much of home.
I’m pining for someone I barely even know—I guess I don't truly understand why. That brief window of time feels like a dream—something entirely surreal... that person, those moments.
I’m feeling depressed, anxious—just generally low—and honestly, I have no idea where to find any shred of motivation or positivity. It isn't about searching for love again—I know that much by now—but once you get used to having it, there really is no going back. Even after a few weeks since the breakup, I just can't stop overthinking everything. Why did it end like this? Why did I act the way I did? Why can't I just behave normally like everyone else... I guess.
So, here I am—alone, whether I'm at home or stuck at the office—just spiraling through my own thoughts. I’ve finally started opening up to my mom about everything. She tells me it’s good to talk—that I need to start being vulnerable—claiming these childhood issues will just haunt me forever if I don't face them head-on. Apparently, you have to go back to the roots. But... how? How do you actually change something that was baked into your psyche decades ago? Where does one even begin to find purpose? I see the patterns—I understand exactly what the problem is and why things turned out this way—but knowing isn't the same as changing my mindset, my thoughts, or my entire self. And honestly, the worst part is that 90% of people couldn't care less about anyone else's struggles. So why bother bothering others with your problems when most people don't want to listen, let alone help?
I went to a pilgrimage site in the Midwest because my mom insisted. I shed some tears—but that’s not the point. If I actually started weeping over everything I've been through and am still dealing with, I’d probably just die from the grief—there’s no stopping it. I'd be crying for days, weeks, months... and I realized that faith isn't my salvation. It's just not working for me. I have to keep searching.
If I keep going down this path, I'm looking at a one-way ticket to a psychiatric ward.