Is This Really?

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I was talking to a friend recently, mostly about how I was feeling, and they said that I’ve survived up til now.

Have I really?

Is this what you call “surviving”? If you call having to put a mask and force a smile, losing my appetite and being tired all the time “surviving”, then yeah, I’ve survived.

I’ve survived for 18 years and counting.

But would I call myself a survivor? No, I definitely would not. Let me explain.

Yes, I’m alive. I’ve had suicidal thoughts in the past but I’ve never acted on them. I don’t believe that death is the answer to obstacles in life. But I’m drowning. I’m drowning in my own thoughts and emotions. I’m barely able to keep afloat.

I push away everything I feel and plaster a smile, hoping that, by ignoring it, it will go away. But when nighttime falls and everything gets a little quiter, everything comes back and I lie in bed, wide awake, unable to quieten my racing thoughts.

What am I supposed to do?

I live each day robotically: waking up, brushing my teeth, eating, doing whatever is asked of me, go back to sleep, repeat. What else is there to do? What can I do?

How do I “survive” when I can barely find the motivation to do what makes me happy? I don’t even know what does anymore.

I know I shouldn’t be complaining. Objectively, I have a good life. I’m living comfortably, I get to study what I want, I have good friends who care about me, I get to live my dream, to a certain extent, on Wattpad and Radish and with Polyethnic Publishing. Yes, they make me happy, but I don’t feel what I used to when I write anymore.

I don’t get the thrill that I used to from writing. Everything is just… bland. Everything I do feels bland, no matter how much I try.

I’m lost.

If this is what you call surviving, then yes, I’ve survived.

But is this really?

Much love,

Angie

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