SatinSoul
all i know is i forgot how to be me.
- Feb 6, 2026
- 53
I am sitting here at noon on a Monday, and i just want to scream, but the sound would only be a burden to everyone now. I have been the "depressed one" for so long that my agony has become a familiar, grating static. It is a signal my family and friends have learned to tune out because it never changes, and it never ends. I can see the frustration in their eyes: the way they look at me and see a malfunctioning machine that refuses to be fixed. I have been loud with my grief, and I have become an expert of survival, yet people are just tired of me. They are exhausted by my stagnation, and the truth is that i am more tired than all of them combined. I can't even look at my phone and see three o'clock in the afternoon without feeling a crushing, leaden weight in my marrow: I cannot fathom a future when i am still drowning in the simple, yet terrifying tasks of a single day.
The only thing that feels like mercy anymore is the thought of disappearing. I look at the horizon, and I don't see opportunities, hope, or dreams. I see a door that I am not allowed to walk through yet. The idea of finally leaving this mess behind is the only thing that has a pulse in my world. It is a quiet, silver escape that promises the one thing no therapist or job board can offer: peace of mind.
I go through the motions to keep them quiet. I send the emails, i nod at the appointments, and i speak the language of recovery like a spy. I am crafting something precious: a masterpiece of a persona that i have no intention of living. There is an old ancient story of a woman named Penelope who spent years weaving a burial shroud, promising she would choose a new life only when it was finished. But every night, she secretly unpicked her work so she would never have to move on.
I am living that myth. Every morning, i sit in my dread, and I pick up the heavy, gray threads of a functional existence. I weave the recovering girl, and i lace the edges with the practiced smiles that make the people around me feel like their efforts haven't been in vain. But this garment isn't a career or a future: it is a funeral veil. I am weaving a shroud for my own mourning, a beautiful silk cover to hide the fact that i am already attending my own wake.
Every night i sit in the dark, and i begin the agonizing work of tearing it all apart in my mind. I pull at the stitches of the interviews and the progress until my fingers bleed. I do this because i am terrified of the finish. To finish the weave means i have to let go of the girl who is stuck in the past. It means i am being forced to heal, which is just a polite way of saying i have to murder the only version of myself i still recognize: the one who holds all my trauma and my pain. They want me to trade my real, broken history for a fake, polished future that feels like a stranger's skin. They want me to pretend the last decades didn't happen, and i would rather stay in the dark, unpicking the silk, than step into a life where my pain is no longer allowed to exist.
I am a masterpiece of existential dread. I am a skeleton draped in the most exquisite, expensive lace: a shimmering facade of "better" built to hide a heart that stopped dreaming years ago. I am screaming for help in a language that everyone has stopped learning. I am so incredibly frustrated with being strong for people who are bored by my weakness. I want the dread to break. I want the door to open. I want to look at the sunset and know that i don't have to wake up and weave the lie all over again.
I am not a work in progress. I am a long, slow goodbye that no one dares to hear.
And yet, here i am, picking up the threads once again...
The only thing that feels like mercy anymore is the thought of disappearing. I look at the horizon, and I don't see opportunities, hope, or dreams. I see a door that I am not allowed to walk through yet. The idea of finally leaving this mess behind is the only thing that has a pulse in my world. It is a quiet, silver escape that promises the one thing no therapist or job board can offer: peace of mind.
I go through the motions to keep them quiet. I send the emails, i nod at the appointments, and i speak the language of recovery like a spy. I am crafting something precious: a masterpiece of a persona that i have no intention of living. There is an old ancient story of a woman named Penelope who spent years weaving a burial shroud, promising she would choose a new life only when it was finished. But every night, she secretly unpicked her work so she would never have to move on.
I am living that myth. Every morning, i sit in my dread, and I pick up the heavy, gray threads of a functional existence. I weave the recovering girl, and i lace the edges with the practiced smiles that make the people around me feel like their efforts haven't been in vain. But this garment isn't a career or a future: it is a funeral veil. I am weaving a shroud for my own mourning, a beautiful silk cover to hide the fact that i am already attending my own wake.
Every night i sit in the dark, and i begin the agonizing work of tearing it all apart in my mind. I pull at the stitches of the interviews and the progress until my fingers bleed. I do this because i am terrified of the finish. To finish the weave means i have to let go of the girl who is stuck in the past. It means i am being forced to heal, which is just a polite way of saying i have to murder the only version of myself i still recognize: the one who holds all my trauma and my pain. They want me to trade my real, broken history for a fake, polished future that feels like a stranger's skin. They want me to pretend the last decades didn't happen, and i would rather stay in the dark, unpicking the silk, than step into a life where my pain is no longer allowed to exist.
I am a masterpiece of existential dread. I am a skeleton draped in the most exquisite, expensive lace: a shimmering facade of "better" built to hide a heart that stopped dreaming years ago. I am screaming for help in a language that everyone has stopped learning. I am so incredibly frustrated with being strong for people who are bored by my weakness. I want the dread to break. I want the door to open. I want to look at the sunset and know that i don't have to wake up and weave the lie all over again.
I am not a work in progress. I am a long, slow goodbye that no one dares to hear.
And yet, here i am, picking up the threads once again...
That's hilarious! I'm dying! >ᴗ<
Good writing with Shakespeare over here !! Sorry you feel that way, but it's totally understandable :(
