Fragments of a Mess

I’m here to share some of my thoughts & hopefully reach someone to make them feel understood and help. this is my mark in life, that's what u need to know about me

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

" To miss someone is part of life"

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

Part of me knows that leaving him was the best and I needed to do it.

But other part of me thinks that maybe that was going to be the time he was going to change for me.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

All of a sudden, I don't be wanna loved anymore.

Which is weird cause that's all I ever wanted..

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

A date with my younger self

She arrived 10 minutes early, bright-eyed and full of hope. I arrived on time—I’ve always hated waiting alone.She smiled, expecting to hear the best news of our life."Did we finally meet the love of our life?" she asked eagerly.I smiled, but it wasn’t the kind she hoped for. Yes, we did. But we weren’t the love of his.She beamed at the thought of our dream home. "Did we make the bathroom all black like we always wanted?"I hesitated. We don’t have a house. We still live with Mom… we help with rent.Her face faltered, but she tried again. "Do Mom and Dad still fight all the time?"I lowered my gaze. Dad isn’t here anymore. And our family… it’s not the same.She shifted in her seat. "But we did it, right? All the years of studying, all the hard work—it paid off?"I don’t have a job right now. I swallowed the lump in my throat. Turns out, a degree doesn’t promise a future.She searched my face, the cracks beginning to show. "Are we at least happy?"I have depression. Therapy every two weeks.Silence stretched between us.She took a deep breath, as if bracing for the final blow. "Then… what did we do? What did we make of our life?"I looked at her—the version of me who still believed in all the things that never came to be.Nothing. Everything you dreamed of… none of it happened.For a moment, her expression wavered. Then, just as quickly, she smiled—soft, unwavering, unbroken."Maybe it still will."And for the first time that night, I wondered if she might be right.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

- What would you do if you weren't afraid?

- Fall in love.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

I fucking hate my birthday.

It’s not just about getting older, watching my youth slip away, and feeling the weight of all the things I haven’t done, all the goals I’ve missed. It’s deeper than that. Each passing year feels like a cruel reminder of everything I don’t have, everything I thought I’d achieve by now but haven’t.

My birthday feels like a checkpoint that forces me to face the ugly truth: I feel like a failure.

Every year, it’s the same. A reminder of the things I don’t have but desperately wanted. The life I dreamed of feels so distant it might as well belong to someone else. It’s like I’ve been left behind while everyone else is moving forward, building lives, chasing dreams, achieving milestones—and I’m just... stuck.

I can’t help but look at myself and wonder: What’s wrong with me? How did I let things get this way? Am I so broken that I’ll never get to where I want to be?

My birthday doesn’t feel like a celebration—it feels like an unflinching reminder that no matter how hard I try, I’m not enough.

My birthday isn’t a celebration—it’s a harsh, glaring spotlight on how fucked up I feel, how broken I am, and how impossible it seems to ever have the life I once dreamed of.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

I’ve never had someone love me romantically for exactly who I am for more than a year. I’ve never kissed someone on New Year’s Eve, starting the year with shared hope. I’ve never celebrated Valentine’s Day with flowers, gestures, or even something simple but meaningful. I’ve never received a birthday gift from someone romantically interested in me, something that made me feel special. I’ve never been given flowers or a ring, nor have I been surprised with a gesture that made me feel unique.

I’ve never experienced the kind of teenage love that people describe—innocent, full of firsts, and overflowing with genuine care. That window has already passed.

I’ve never had someone plan a romantic surprise for me. I’ve never taken a spontaneous trip with someone special. I’ve never gone on a date at the beach, laughed in the sand, or created those carefree, warm memories. I’ve never realized most of the fantasies I keep hidden, nor shared those vulnerable parts of myself.

I’ve never cooked for someone I loved, nor shared the simple joy of making a meal together. I’ve never woken up to breakfast in bed or been greeted with a romantic dinner prepared just for me. I’ve never felt the comfort of gentle hair strokes, the kind I crave. I’ve never had lighthearted, fun dates that turned ordinary days into extraordinary ones.

I’ve never had someone pick me up from work or wait for me at home after a hard day. I’ve never gone on a long road trip, singing along to songs we both loved, sharing stories as the miles passed. I’ve never introduced anyone to my family, nor had someone introduce me to theirs. I’ve never had someone learn all my quirks and love them instead of just tolerating them.

I’ve never hosted a dinner at home with laughter filling the air and plates I carefully prepared for friends and family. I’ve never been the person others eagerly anticipate seeing at events or gatherings.

I’ve never decorated a home to reflect my dreams, choosing every piece with love and care. I’ve never planted flowers on a balcony or watched something grow alongside me. I’ve never built a space that felt like my sanctuary, where traditions, rhythms, and comfort were entirely mine.

I’ve never recaptured the warmth of Christmas, because I’ve never had anyone to share it with.

And that's what I need to feel alive.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

When I say I feel stuck in life and that I don’t have what people my age have, I don’t just mean not having a long-term relationship, a house, getting married, or starting a family.

I mean what those milestones represent—the moments they bring, the experiences I’ve never had and, as time goes on, might never have.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

But I know one thing for sure: I’ll never love someone again the way I loved this year. That love was unique—a once-in-a-lifetime storm that left me both stronger and emptier in its wake.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

What can I say about this year?

It was, without a doubt, the most traumatic year of my life. I don’t even know how I’m still standing. Maybe it’s thanks to my friends or the empathy I hold for my family that keeps me going.

I never realized you could love someone so much that it becomes desperate, disappointing, miserable, and even obsessive. Loving like that felt like losing myself in pieces I’ll never fully reclaim. And yet, it was real.

I didn’t know I was capable of being so forgiving to people who saw me at my lowest and chose to look away—yet, to this day, I still smile at them, not because they deserve it, but because that’s who I am.

This year taught me the value of true friendship. Good friends are rare, and their love feels like a lighthouse when the world is dark. But I’ve also learned that being a good friend sometimes means making sacrifices—doing for others what you hope they’d do for you. It’s not transactional; it’s an act of love, a way of building the kind of connection that lingers in the heart long after the moment has passed.

Sometimes, you have to be the friend you wish for, the one you hope lives in the hearts of those you love.

I’ve come to understand the depth of my own heart and how it doesn’t fit neatly into this society. My love is too big, too raw, too real to be met with the same intensity. I don’t think I’ll ever love someone again the way I loved this year.

I came to understand that I can’t change people—the way they treat me, the space I occupy in their lives, or the respect they choose to give. None of that has anything to do with me; it’s all about them.

And no, I won’t give you that cliché about “learning to love myself.” I’ve always loved myself, ever since… forever. We all do, in some way, even if it’s just a part of us. That’s not the issue.

People like to say that loving yourself is the answer to everything, but that’s not true. Self-love doesn’t erase the longing to be loved by someone else. It doesn’t stop us from dreaming of a connection so deep and true that it feels like coming home.

I thought someone could love me the way I wanted to be loved. That’s not a question of self-love or self-respect—it’s a dream, a hope, an expectation we all carry in life.

This year broke me, that’s a fact for everyone. I’m not the same person I was when it started, and I’ll never be that person again. But maybe that’s the point. Growth is messy, painful, and often invisible to the world.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

So, it’s Christmas… For years now, my Christmas has been marked by a deep sense of longing—or as we say in Portuguese, saudades.

It feels strange to talk about “years” because I’m not used to missing something for so long. Yet, at the same time, it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long.

Christmas just isn’t the same without my dad. Losing him at such a young age has left a void, and I can’t imagine how I’ll feel when I eventually lose my mom. But right now, it’s my dad I miss—so much.

He was the life of the party, always making everyone laugh. His energy lit up every room. But what I miss most is the moment when we’d get home after the family gathering. My mom, dad, and I would sit together on the couch and go through the presents we had received.

During the party itself, everything was so lively and chaotic—gifts being exchanged, laughter filling the air, and everyone talking at once. But when we got home, we’d take a moment to really look at each gift, share our thoughts, and just enjoy the calm after all the excitement. It was a simple, peaceful tradition, but it meant so much to me. It felt like our own little celebration as a family.

That moment was so special. I miss it more than I can put into words.

Will this feeling ever fade? Will I ever be able to enjoy Christmas the way I used to?

Deep down, I don’t think Christmas will ever be the same. Someone is always missing.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

loving a bad person

Isn’t it strange? To love someone who’s a bad person

It almost so strange that I still can believe it. 

Why would I love someone who’s bad? 

That doesn’t make sense.

But that’s the thing about love: it doesn’t follow logic. It thrives in the cracks of humanity, in the spaces where people show just enough softness to make us fall for that. And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Bad people aren’t always bad all the time. Sometimes they’re kind, sometimes they’re vulnerable, sometimes they’re the exact thing you need in the moment you need it most. And you grab onto that part of them, ignoring the rest—or maybe just excusing it.

Or maybe it’s not them at all. Maybe I loved what they made me feel, even if they weren’t good for me. Maybe I loved the idea of having them, or of being the one who could bring out their better side.

It’s maddening, really. To look back and see the red flags I tripped over, to see the ways I justified the hurt, to feel the tug of affection for someone who didn’t deserve the pedestal I put them on.

And yet, here I am. Still haunted by that love. Still questioning how I could have given so much to someone who gave me so little in return.It doesn’t make sense, I know. But love—especially for someone bad—is never simple. It’s messy, painful, and complicated. And maybe that’s the strangest part of all: it doesn’t make sense to others except to ourselves.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

Why do I feel like reading on my work hours and not when i'm out of it??

HELP

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

I'm not waiting for my happy ending anymore. I'm just waiting for the end.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

Let's be honest: don't ask me to stay in touch with someone I can't have and I thougth of having a life with.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

it's not because i don't want to talk to you, I do. But you're not the same person I used to talk to.

Also, what's the point of talking with someone I know I can't have. It's like throwing salt into a wound. Painfull and unecessary. I don't need to put salt in my wound everyday to know it's still there. It doesn't need to hurt that bad.

[fuckinglonelybiatch]

Missing you doesn’t change what you did to me.

The ache in my chest is real, a void that pulls at my heart, reminding me of the moments we shared, the connection we once had. But within that yearning lies the truth I can’t ignore: no matter how much I wish things were different, the damage you left behind still lingers.

Missing you feels like a storm, unpredictable and heavy, but even in the calm, I remember how the rain washed away my trust. The scars are faded, but they’re still there. Your absence doesn’t erase the pain you caused; it only adds to the confusion of why I still care.

I wish it were easier to forget, that my heart could simply forgive. But the reality is, missing you doesn’t change the truth I’ve learned—the truth that sometimes love hurts, and sometimes, we have to love ourselves more than the memory of what we thought we had.