"I Still Wake Up, But I Don’t Know Why"

It’s been a long time since I last posted. Maybe some of you thought I disappeared or even died. Some days, I wished I had. For most of my life, I have struggled with myself and always drowned in suicidal thoughts. This isn’t something new. I never let anyone know. It’s been with me since I was a teenager. I kept it hidden because I didn’t want to burden anyone. I smiled, kept quiet, and acted like everything was fine, but I wasn’t. I was hurting. Deeply.

These past few years, I didn’t heal—I just learned how to bury everything. I drowned myself in work, keeping my hands moving so my mind wouldn’t collapse under the silence. But inside, I was crumbling. My life has been nothing but loneliness echoing in every corner, and depression that clings like a second skin.

I’ve always been the quiet one—the wallflower. You know the type. The person who sits in a group, but might as well be invisible. Someone tells a joke, and everyone laughs. I try to say something… and it’s like I was never even there. They talk over me, through me. It's awkward, and it cuts deep.

Even in my own family, I’ve always been the odd one out. The youngest, the quietest, the most out of place. I never knew how to socialise properly. I still don’t. I’m awkward, reserved, too afraid to let anyone get close. I shut everyone out because, deep down… I hate myself.

On the bus to work, I keep my head down. I avoid eye contact, hoping no one sees me. Sometimes I spot my colleagues, but I pretend I didn’t notice them. It’s not because I’m rude. It’s because I’m ashamed—of how I look, how I exist. I hate the way I’ve been judged for my acne-scarred skin, my body, the way I don’t “look” like I belong here. Sometimes I feel like I don't even look human.

I’m a manager at work, at least on paper. But I don’t feel like one. My subordinates treated me like a tool—someone to extract information from, to push responsibilities onto. I wanted to be part of the group, part of something, even just once. But no one invited me to lunch. No one checked in on me. I was useful—but never wanted. Never seen.

I watch others say the same things I’ve said before, but when they speak, the boss listens. When I speak, it’s like a whisper in the wind. I feel like a broken cog in the machine, not good enough, not smart enough. Not enough in any way.

Back in April 2025, something in me broke. I went up to the third floor of the office—somewhere quiet, where no one would be. And I cried. Not just tears. I sobbed so hard my whole body trembled. My colleagues had once again gone for lunch without me. I wasn’t even considered. I was only needed when something had to be done. Outside of work? I didn’t exist.

I cried on the bus. I cried in the shower. I cried when I thought no one could hear. I felt like I had no friends, no one to talk to. Even my partner grew distant—he told me I was “trauma dumping.” And after that, I stopped opening up. Maybe it was a sign that I was meant to be alone.

I wrote a long letter to my parents that night. I wanted to tell them how sorry I was. That despite all my flaws, I love them deeply—but never knew how to show it. I left it on the table and went to bed. The next morning, my dad messaged: “No parent doesn’t love their child.” I broke down. After all this time, all the pretending, he finally saw a part of me I tried so hard to hide. My silly jokes at home were a mask. A desperate attempt to seem okay. But I was never okay. I thought I found liberation after he understands how much I still love him and my stepmom.

Then recently, I asked him about a missing shirt. He said he might have thrown it out. I wasn’t angry—just sad. But he snapped. He started yelling, saying I never organise my things, always hoarding clothes. Then he brought up the past—how I slammed doors, how I shouted. I admitted I was wrong then. But I’m not that person anymore.

I told him I’ve changed. I’ve tried. I bring food, give money, offer small acts of love. But to him, it’s like I’m still that difficult, angry boy. He said he didn’t dare ask me to visit my mom and grandma’s resting place because of my past tantrums. But I’ve longed to go. I’ve longed to mend our relationship. He just never saw it.

And then he said it—he was ashamed of me. Because of my tattoos. Because of what others say. Because I don’t look like the son he wished he had. He said his friends and neighbours questioned him. That my tattoos made people not want to be around me. That I embarrassed him.

He said the words I’ve always feared: "You’re a disappointment."

And I cried. Right there in front of him. Because even though he hurt me so deeply, I still love him. I’ve always loved him. But I think… he regrets adopting me. I think he sees me as a mistake—a gay, depressive, broken mistake. I thought things were actually getting better since April but how wrong I was. I knew it wasn't that simple.

That night, something inside me went silent. My mind screamed. I thought about everything I’ve ruined—every friendship, every opportunity, every hope. I thought maybe the world would be better off without me. I’m tired. Tired of feeling unwanted. Tired of being misunderstood. Tired of waking up every day only to feel like I don’t belong anywhere.

I hate my face, my body, my voice, my thoughts. I hate how I look. I hate that I don't “pass” as someone worthy. I hate how I cry over things I should’ve been stronger about. I hate that people think I’m aloof, when I’m just hurting. I hate being me.

And yet I still go to work. I still wear the mask. I still function like a machine. People talk around me. I speak and no one listens. I exist and no one sees.. I’ve never felt more alone.

Even now, I don’t know what I want from life.
Only that I’m tired. So, so tired.

I want to rest — and never wake up.

I’m not writing this for pity. I’m writing this because I am tired of trying too hard for myself, for people around me, only to end up destroying everything.

I just want to rest.

Maybe one day, I’ll find peace.

Maybe one day… that peace is through death.