October 30, 2025
It was one of those days where time didn't move forward it just pooled around me like stagnant water, heavy and suffocating. The air felt thick, not with humidity, but with absence. Not the kind of absence that leaves space for something new, but the kind that hollows you out from the inside until there's nothing left but a shell echoing with silence. I woke up or rather, I opened my eyes and immediately wished I hadn't. Not because of pain, not because of fear, but because of a quiet, relentless emptiness that whispered: *Why bother?*
This wasn't sadness. Sadness has texture, color, even a kind of dignity. This was worse. This was numbness wrapped in exhaustion, a void where motivation, joy, and even the will to exist used to live. I didn't cry. I didn't rage. I just… floated. Detached. Watching myself go through motions I no longer believed in brushing teeth, swallowing pills, staring at walls as if I were a ghost haunting my own life.
The phrase "All is well" echoed in my head like a cruel joke. It's what I say to others when they ask how I am. It's what I tell myself to keep the panic at bay. But today, it felt like a lie so worn it had lost all meaning. "All is well" when nothing is. "All is well" when I can't remember the last time I felt real. "All is well" even as my soul begs for erasure not violently, not dramatically, but with a quiet, aching resignation that feels like giving up without even trying to hold on.
I've heard people talk about depression as a dark cloud or a heavy blanket. But this? This feels like being erased while still breathing. Like watching your reflection fade in a mirror until there's nothing left but glass. I don't feel angry at the world. I don't even feel angry at myself anymore. There's just… nothing. A flatline where a heartbeat should be.
And yet, I'm still here. Not because I want to be, but because stopping feels like too much effort or maybe too little. There's a strange paradox in that: the desire to disappear coexisting with the inertia that keeps you tethered to a life you no longer recognize as your own. I take my eleven pills every day. Eleven tiny promises that things might get better, or at least manageable. But today, they felt like pebbles in my palm—useless, inert, unable to fill the hollow.
I haven't slept from few days again. Not because I wasn't tired in the usual sense, but because sleep is the only place where the emptiness doesn't talk. In dreams, I'm not me. I'm someone else someone who laughs without thinking, who wakes up with purpose, who feels the sun on their skin and calls it warmth instead of just light. But then I open my eyes, and the weight returns. Heavier each time.
People say, "It gets better." But what if it doesn't? What if this is just… it? What if this quiet, soul-crushing neutrality is the rest of my story? I don't have an answer. I don't even have a question anymore. Just this persistent, whispering void that says, Let's do this until the day I die. Not with hope. Not with despair. Just… endurance.
And still, somewhere deep so deep I almost missed it there's a flicker. A memory of a quote I once clung to: Where there is life, there is hope." I don't feel it today. Not really. But I remember feeling it once. And maybe that's enough. Maybe remembering that hope existed even if it's gone now is a kind of lifeline. Because if it existed once, it could return. Not because I believe it will, but because I've seen it happen before, in small, unexpected moments: a kind word from a stranger, the way sunlight hits a window in the afternoon, the rare laugh that bubbles up without warning.
Today wasn't one of those days. Today was the kind of day that makes you question whether you're really living or just occupying space. But tomorrow might be different. It might not be but it might. And as long as there's a "might," there's a thread. Thin, frayed, almost invisible but there.
So I write this not as a cry for help, but as a testament: this is what it feels like to be empty and still breathing. To wear "All is well" like armor, even when it cracks under the weight of truth. To endure without understanding why. And if you're reading this and you know this feeling if your soul, too, whispers for erasure please know this: you are not broken beyond repair. You are not a burden. You are not alone, even when it feels like the entire universe has turned its back.
Hold on. Not because you have to, but because someone out there is holding on for you, even if you can't see them yet.
And if all you can do today is exist that is enough.
Content Warning: This piece discusses intense emotional distress, feelings of emptiness, and passive suicidal ideation. If you are in crisis or struggling with 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.