I was fine, then I started thinking

Be right back, reconnecting with nature and picking up some lemons after whatever tf this was.

“I don’t know, I feel like a hamster trapped in one of those wheels”

I hit send and continue folding our laundry. My lips touch another pair of black socks, only to confirm that they are, in fact, still wet. Despite hours of tumbling around, the socks are all still wet. I’m worried about that error that keeps making the machine stop mid-cycle. The constant beeping makes my head hurt, and the thought of a broken appliance in need of any sort of fixing sends a shiver down my bank account’s spine. Because there’s also the car, and that trip in March, and don’t forget the bills and the money you have to save.

It’s still January, and it makes no sense that a whole year has gone by in the space of 27 days. I promised myself it would be different this time. I would keep a small notebook to write down all the good things that happen everyday. I would make an effort to change my perspective, to be more grateful, to feel better about myself and my life. I would make peace with it, all of it. I promise. I purchased the Muji pen and added a smiley face every time those 24 hours were really worth it. And then I stopped writing. Last entry, January 15. Not because good things didn’t happen, but because I’m still me.

“another day in my head, it’s just more of the same”

I keep texting my friends a different variation of the same thought. A thought that haunts me everyday. It spooks me out on my way to work, my mind struggling to accept that this is another day of doing something we don’t love, something that brings us no fulfillment, but does it have to. It’s just a job, I repeat to myself over and over again. I have a meeting in 30 minutes and I’m already running late. I don’t really have time to waste, but am I wasting time? Before I can even answer, my thumb goes on autopilot and opens the app I swore I would avoid before 9AM. Another stranger getting engaged. Scroll, wedding, scroll, job promotion, scroll, I can’t believe there’s so many of us here, scroll, look at this amazing thing I just did, scroll, scroll, scroll. Another stranger announcing her pregnancy. Lost count of the days, still bleeding though. The booklet says it’s normal, so why doesn’t it feel like that. Don’t take this if you. But what choice do I have. Another baby. What a blessing. Good for her, I’m so happy for you. I really mean it.

Swipe, close.

I open the other app, but lately it has become as draining as the last one, sucking the little life I have left in me. Another stranger crosses the line. 10,000, are you kidding me. Scroll, this piece is amazing, scroll, you’re a genius, scroll, once in a lifetime talent, scroll, best thing I’ve read in here, scroll, just write for yourself, scroll, I love mediocre writers because they make me feel good about myself, scroll, me and the 2 people who read all my posts, scroll, here’s how to grow on Substack, scroll, this is why you’re not growing on Substack, scroll, scroll, scroll. Another stranger looking to connect, tell me where you’re from and what you write about, I want to connect with small writers. Hi, I’m me, this is what I write about. Ignored. Again. Is it that bad. Am I that bad. Why do I think it’s about me. Who am I, even, for it to be about me. The more I see, the less I feel. Apathy. It’s like I’m passively drowning in a sea of words, waiting for the lifeline that will bring me back up. But I know I won’t find it here.

Swipe, close.

The rain comes down again, hitting the window with the same anger I feel towards this version that inhabits my body and consumes my mind. Too much in her head. Making them worry, why is she acting this way. Why is she always acting this way. Up and down like a rollercoaster, understanding now after all these years why the ride was not made for the faint of heart. Maybe if she just tried to change, maybe if she just chose to be happy instead of whatever she is, I don’t know, is she depressed or something. Going through another crisis that she can’t keep to herself. Can they read through the lines, can they tell I’m an imposter. Bitter. Why me. Why not me. Envious, sometimes. Human. Too many questions. What is the purpose. Everything ends, is their patience also running dry, like my will to keep going. Scared of icing everyone out, isolated, consequences of her own actions.

“you know, a lot of this has to do with my own questions that make me sick, like needing validation and wanting to feel like people really like it, that I’m not wasting my time on something that has no future or isn’t that good, I have such a hard time with the thought that this might be mediocre, I just can’t have that fuck it energy and do it despite other people might think”

Back where I was born, I was constantly being called out for being an insufferable teenager. You’re always putting words in my mouth, finding things where things don’t exist, thinking you can read our minds when you can’t. You say either and I say either. You say neither and I say neither. Miscommunication, maybe. Or something worse, some wicked complex, a nasty habit, not that I wanted to be vile or anything. Doing my best to play by the rules. Can’t upset anyone, need to make them proud. A textbook people-pleaser. Humble, always. Wouldn't catch me saying a single good word about myself. Keeping my discretion because that’s how you find success. Don’t act like you’re the best, what makes you special anyway, when you compare to. If only I was more like them and less like me. If only I could free myself from this version that inhabits my body and consumes my mind. Her own worst enemy. Picking herself apart. Insecure, small, never good enough. So insecure and so small it’s annoying, how they put up with her I’ll never understand.

The rain keeps coming down, violent the sound, like what goes on inside, sometimes at least. The same words again, texture unpleasant, flavor bland, hard to chew. The same words again, spat into another piece I have to awkwardly self-promote because how else will it reach. The same words again, read by the same people, liked by the same people, disregarded by the same people. Wishing I had something else to say. Something more interesting. Something clever. Something new. Something that doesn’t make their eyes roll because here she goes again, is she depressed or something. Wishing I could write about something else. Something that feels hopeful. Delicate. A dream. The fantasy. Sheer nightgowns with white lace, filter coffee and fresh bread straight from the oven, notebooks and books and vinyl records sang by voices whose names I can’t pronounce, no television no social media no brain rot no futile distractions clouding your brain, space to enjoy the silence without feeling empty inside, a quiet mind, a quiet life. But isn’t authenticity what they want. Raw. Unfiltered. A complete mess, most of the time at least. Forgetting to remove those traces of makeup before going to bed, a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and they’ve been there for two days already, need to wash my hair but haven’t showered yet because I wanted to workout but now it’s almost 9PM and how does the time keep moving so fast but also so slow, how am I supposed to do this all over again tomorrow when I feel this exhausted, phone on do not disturb but chronically online. “You’re so funny”, thanks I’m miserable.

I’m aware of the duality. Isn’t it ironic. Drunk on self-criticism, yet lucid enough to silence the inner voices. Discreet, yes, but isn’t this dance in itself a cry for attention. And does it make you an evil person, less of a real writer, if you admit that part of you likes it. Craves it, even. Why do any of us do it anyway, if not to feel less alone in our own thoughts. Still lost in the words of Clarice Lispector when she said, “I write as if to save someone’s life. Perhaps my own life. Living is a sort of madness made by death.” I write to save my own life. Shouldn’t that be enough. Shouldn’t that make up for everything else. Why the constant need, then, to justify whatever is missing, every shortcoming, every mediocre outcome. I’m just doing it for myself, I don’t put too much pressure, you know. I’m not looking for perfect, I just want to do it, you know. If I lack so much, why do I feel like I deserve so many. Am I lying to myself, eating this narrative like it’s the only thing left on the table. Do I have it in me after all. Do I know I have it in me. The potential. Am I scared of it, like that flame you want to touch as a child, sparkling right in front of your innocent eyes, but you know you’ll burn if you get too close. Too many questions. What is the purpose. Why me. Why not me. Waiting for the lifeline that will bring me back up. But I know I won’t find it here.

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Thank you for reading and supporting Nobody is reading this. Before you go, here’s a quick note on today’s piece.

Unlike every other piece I’ve written, this one didn’t begin with my usual approach: idea, title, essay, edit, send. When I reached the end of this piece, I had nothing—just a string of words written with no purpose, no idea, and no title. In fact, as I type this, I have no clue what the title will be. All I wanted to do was write, and acknowledge these feelings freely, without the constrains of perfectly constructed paragraphs.

And since the start wasn’t the usual, I also want to try something different with the ending. I wrote this poem (if you can call it that) a few weeks ago, with two things in mind: first, a very dear friend of mine, and second, this quote which said, grieving the loss of a life you had always imagined for yourself is the saddest thing. I haven’t written poetry (if you can call it that) since I was an insufferable teenager, so bear with me.

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lemons.

life threw me lemons when all I wanted was a mango

so they said, make a lemonade

but all I wanted was a mango

I wanted the sun on my cheeks

and the juice on my lips

making my fingers sticky

and my tongue sweet

I wanted to feel like myself again

like a happy child whose only question in life is who will cut my mango today

instead they said, make a lemonade

but I didn’t ask for it

I didn’t ask for the bitterness that makes babies cry when they taste it for the first time

I didn’t ask for the sting

the rough patchy skin

the pale lumps that get stuck everywhere

and still they said, make a lemonade

make a lemonade

make a lemonade

and then it hit me

what is lemonade

if not a way to dilute the pain