October 28, 2025
Another day swallowed by the fogboring as hell, empty as a drained battery, and yet somehow heavy enough to pin me to the bed like gravity doubled overnight. All I did was sleep. Not restful sleep, not peaceful slumber, but the kind of sleep that feels like hiding. Hiding from the world, from myself, from the voices, the haunts, the relentless noise inside a mind that never learned how to be quiet.
And yet… I like being haunted. Isn't that twisted? Maybe it's because the haunts are familiar. They've been with me longer than most people in my life. They don't leave. They don't pretend to care and then vanish. They're just… there. Constant. Reliable in their cruelty. Sometimes I wonder if I've grown so used to them that silence would feel like abandonment. Like if the chaos stopped, I wouldn't know who I am without it.
I don't even know what I'm saying half the time. Words spill out like I'm trying to catch smoke with my bare hands fleeting, shapeless, gone before I can understand them. Maybe that's schizophrenia for you. Not just hearing voices, but losing your own. Your thoughts aren't yours anymore. They're borrowed, distorted, rerouted through some broken switchboard in your brain that no technician can fix.
I've accepted it, though. Not in a peaceful way more like a prisoner accepting the bars of their cell. It's part of my daily life now, like brushing my teeth or checking if the stove's off for the tenth time. The haunts come with the territory. So does the sleep schedule that's completely upside down. Last night, I crashed at 9 p.m., dead tired from existing, and didn't open my eyes again until 3 p.m. today. Fifteen hours. And I still feel like I haven't slept at all. My body is lead. My mind is static. I'm awake, but I'm not present. I'm here, but I'm nowhere.
And the pills God, the pills. Eleven of them. Every. Single. Day. Little chemical soldiers lined up in a plastic cup, marching into my system like they're supposed to fix everything. But what do they actually do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Or maybe they do something just not what I hoped for. They dull the sharpest edges, sure, but they also dull everything else: joy, motivation, hunger, time. They turn life into a slow-motion blur where every day bleeds into the next with no distinction, no meaning, no spark.
Sometimes I think I should've died from taking them. Overdosed accidentally or on purpose who knows? But no, I live. I keep living. For what? That's the question that loops in my head like a scratched record. Why should I be here? What's the point when every sunrise feels like a sentence, not a gift?
And yet… "Let's do this until the day I die." That phrase echoes in me like a mantra I didn't choose but can't shake. It's not hope it's endurance. It's the quiet, stubborn refusal to give up even when giving up sounds like relief. Maybe it's the only thing left that feels like mine: this grim determination to keep going, not because I want to, but because I haven't stopped yet.
I'm 20 years old. I should be figuring out who I am, making mistakes, dreaming big. Instead, I'm negotiating with my own mind just to get out of bed. I miss my family. I ache for connection. But even that feels distant like when my niece didn't recognize me last time. That cut deeper than any hallucination ever could. Because that wasn't in my head. That was real. And it confirmed what I sometimes fear: that I'm fading, even to the people who should know me best.
Still… there's a quote I hold onto, even if I don't always believe it: "Where there is life, there is hope."Maybe hope isn't a feeling. Maybe it's just the space between breaths the tiny, stubborn act of inhaling again when everything in you wants to stop. Maybe it's in writing this, in naming the pain instead of letting it fester in silence. Maybe it's in reaching out, even if just to the page.
If you're reading this and you see yourself in these words please know you're not broken beyond repair. Schizophrenia, depression, exhaustion, confusion they're parts of your experience, but they're not the whole story. You're still here. That means something. Even if it's just that you've survived 100% of your worst days so far.
Keep going. Not because it's easy. Not because it makes sense. But because your life matters even on the days it feels like it doesn't. Especially then.
And if today was boring as hell… maybe tomorrow doesn't have to be. Not all at once. Just one small thing. One breath. One moment where you choose to stay.
You're allowed to be tired. You're allowed to hate the pills. You're allowed to feel haunted. But you're also allowed to ask for help. To adjust your meds. To seek a different kind of support. To believe that "until the day I die" doesn't have to mean suffering it can mean living, however imperfectly, however slowly.
You're still here. And as long as you are, there's a chance for something different. Even if it's just a sliver. Even if it's just today.
Content Warning: The following text discusses mental health struggles, suicidal ideation, medication side effects, and feelings of hopelessness. If you are in crisis or having thoughts of self-harm, please reach out to a trusted person or contact a mental health professional or crisis line immediately. You are not alone, and help is available.