It’s one of those days where nothing feels like it’s going anywhere. It’s almost easier when something urgent forces you to focus and gives your mind a place to land. But not today. My mind feels empty, and I don’t know where to put my energy. I scroll mindlessly through articles at work, convincing myself it looks like productivity. Maybe it does. But really, what work is there left for me to do when I’ve already done it all?

So I think. Not about anything specific, just think. Or try to. My head feels blank, but I know it’s not. There’s so much going on in there, I can’t even form one complete thought. I don’t know what to call it. Laziness? Stupidity? Something worse?

See, I just dozed off for a second, and you wouldn’t even realize. That’s my problem. My mind is a mess of ideas and stories, and feelings. When I finally choose one to hold onto, no matter how excited or determined I am, I never finish it. That’s what scares me. Sure, I can finish a class assignment, wrap up something for work. But the things I start for myself? For my well-being? They never make it past day three. Four, if I’m lucky. I always end up tearing it down, convinced the idea was never that good to begin with.

I know I’m creative. I know I have interesting thoughts and cool ideas. But does any of that matter if I don’t put them to use beyond tasks with a deadline?

I don’t know the answer. Maybe I do, somewhere deep down. Maybe it’s all an internal tug-of-war that’s louder lately because I haven’t taken my Lexapro in over a month. There’s another example for you—I can’t even commit to the thing that helps me feel okay. I only take it when I’m spiraling, but otherwise, I convince myself I don’t need it. I tell myself I’ve got everything under control, even when that’s obviously not true.

That’s why I see my therapist, Ashley, every other Monday at 3 p.m. To talk about all this. To get it out. But sometimes, I can’t even focus in those sessions. I sit there scrolling on my phone, nodding along. And when I do talk, I don’t always tell the full truth. Sometimes I lie. Nothing major, just small stuff. I don’t know why I do it. She’s paid not to judge me. She’s there to help. And I still hold back. Maybe I’m ashamed. She once told me that.

I think she knows when I’m checked out. I think most people do, even if they don’t say anything. My mind just drifts as it lives somewhere else when people talk to me. I don’t do it on purpose. It just…happens. Over and over again.

To be fair, I do that with everyone. Not just Ashley. I’m extroverted, super friendly even. I won’t sit here and say that it’s all a front, because it’s not. That part of me is real. But I don’t let people in, not really. Even when they think they’ve found the key to who I am, they haven’t. No one has. Except maybe one who’s not even a person, but my cat. Lolo. He’s the closest. Maybe because he can’t repeat my secrets. He can’t expose the things I don’t want to admit out loud.

It’s not even like I have deep, dark secrets, though maybe I do. Everyone hides something. If we didn’t, where’s the desire in life? The unknown is tempting. There’s so much we’ll never understand, so what’s one more mystery added to the pile?

I think that’s what I’m scared of, you know, not knowing. I read something recently while scrolling (what else is new?) that said people who look up the ending of a movie while watching it might be dealing with unresolved trauma. When I saw that, I immediately muttered, “Well, fuck,” because I always do that. I always look up the endings. I didn’t even like the video, didn’t want to give it a view or engagement, because what if the person wasn’t even a real mental health professional?

Still, it stuck with me. I didn’t look up the validity. I didn’t want to. My curiosity didn’t peak the way it usually does. And that’s saying something, because I always want to know—even when it has nothing to do with me. That’s why I avoid the news. The world is too much. The pain, the cruelty, all of it gets in my head and stays there. So I feign ignorance, and I’m okay with that. Let others carry the worry until it touches me directly. That probably sounds shitty. But it’s true.

I’ve learned I can’t pour into everyone else’s cup and expect there to be anything left for me. That’s how I end up thirsty, bitter, and burnt out. Same goes for curiosity. I finally caved and searched, “why do people look up movie endings?” And guess what? Nothing mentioned trauma. I probably didn’t dig deep enough, didn’t type “trauma” in the search bar. Still, it made me feel better.

The truth is, accepting the reality of your life is hard, especially when it isn’t picture-perfect. My parents disagree when I say that, but deep down, I think they know. They’re just scared to admit it. That’s okay, for now. It’ll take time. One day, they’ll have to face it, just like I am. Even if nothing shocking happened to me growing up, it still shaped me. Even an unconventional family dynamic leaves marks.

It’s like that one sheet of paper in your folder. It’s fine, protected, until it’s not. Maybe you didn’t close the folder properly. Maybe you shoved it into your bag, and the spiral of your notebook jammed into the crease. Now there’s a permanent fold, maybe even a small tear. It’ll never go back to how it used to be.

%% That’s the best metaphor I can think of right now. Better than the whole flower and virginity thing. That’s always been a crappy metaphor anyway, the flower is still a flower. Nothing changes fundamentally unless you’re one of the unlucky ones. (i meant like getting preggo)

Anyway, that’s life. We change. We grow. We wilt, bloom, repeat. There are babies, toddlers, and angsty preteens. Don’t even get me started on them. The point is, no one stays the same. You can’t expect to enjoy life if you’re just treading water in a fishbowl, swimming in circles, struggling to breathe.

I think what I meant to say, before my brain hijacked the train of thought, is that it’s not the uncertainty that’s scary. It’s the idea of knowing everything that really haunts me. So yeah, maybe I know what I’m doing. Maybe I don’t. But at least I’m not six feet under, wondering nothing at all.