i think i’m finally starting to understand that maybe i’m not healing, maybe i’m just getting really good at distracting myself. and honestly, that realization hurts more than i expected. because there was a time when i used to write because i wanted to understand myself. i would sit somewhere at 2am and put every stupid, complicated, embarrassing thought into words just because i needed somewhere to put it. now i write because i don’t want to think. i post, i scroll, i talk to people, i romanticize things, i disappear into music, movies, conversations, random little obsessions. i keep myself occupied enough that i don’t have to sit alone with the thought that something inside me is actually hurting.
even social media feels like a coping mechanism now. maybe especially social media. earlier, i used to write for myself. now half the time i write because i need a distraction from whatever is going on in my head. sometimes i’ll write something romantic just because it gives me somewhere else to put my feelings. sometimes i’ll obsess over someone i barely know. sometimes even my horny thoughts feel like a coping mechanism, which sounds ridiculous when i say it out loud, but maybe it isn’t. maybe it’s just another way for my brain to chase a feeling strong enough to drown out the ones i don’t want to feel.
and the worst part is that ik i’m doing it.
ik when i’m scrolling for hours bcs i don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. i know when i’m looking for attention because silence feels too loud. i know when i’m writing something beautiful because there’s something ugly underneath it that i don’t know how to say. i know when i’m pretending to be okay because being honest about how exhausted i am would mean admitting that i’m not handling things as well as everyone thinks i am.
i have people who care about me. i know that. i’m not unaware of it. but sometimes someone can care about you deeply and you can still have absolutely no idea how to explain what is happening inside your own head. there are days when someone asks me what’s wrong and i genuinely have no answer. not because nothing is wrong, but because there is too much wrong and none of it has a name.
i wake up. i study. i talk. i laugh. i post things. i make jokes. i flirt. i think about sex. i romanticize the moon. i listen to songs that hurt for no reason. i do all these tiny things that make me look like a person who is living, while somewhere underneath all of it i’m just trying to figure out how to feel like myself again.
maybe thats why i keep writing at night.
because when everything gets quiet, there’s nothing left to distract me from myself.
and maybe i don’t actually miss the people i keep thinking about as much as i miss the version of me that existed before i needed them, or social media, or attention, or desire, or anything else to keep my mind occupied.
i think i miss writing bcs it used to be a conversation with myself.
now it feels more like an escape from myself.
and maybe tonight, for once, i don’t want to escape.
i just want to sit with the uncomfortable truth that something in me is hurting, even if i still don’t know how to fix it.
2087
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