Real strength isn’t in carrying the weight alone — it’s knowing when to lay it down.
Tuesday, February 18th
Wake up. Gotta start writing these thoughts and feelings — they’re already starting.
Woke up. Mouth numb and dry. My body stiff, shaking from being hunched up all night. Over a week now, sleeping on this sofa. Should be used to it. My neck twisted, my body struggling to get the blood flowing.
Haven’t slept in the bed since you left. I can’t. But I need to face that tonight.
This morning, I had a joint and looked at some of our pictures that popped up in my memories. And for the first time, I really saw it. The emptiness in my own eyes. Even in happy times, even when I was out, laughing, enjoying myself — I was disconnected. I’ve seen that look before. In pictures of friends I’ve lost to suicide. That vacant stare. The silent suffering.
Supposed to be back at the gym today, but my neck, my head — I can’t.
The kitchen’s a mess. The house, untouched. The same things I used to moan at you for, I now can’t bring myself to do. Even last week, I could. Right up until the end. But now, it all feels too much.
I used to wonder how people let their homes turn to chaos, how they slip into the abyss. How they end up buried under their own mess, paralyzed by despair.
I get it now.
The clutter piles up. The hopelessness piles up. The filth is just a reflection of the mind. It’s a cycle. And once it starts, it’s so easy to let go completely.
I will get back to the gym. It’s been months.
Bath. Spliff. Thoughts.
Sitting in the bath, smoking a big fat joint, drinking a cup of tea. Reading other people’s blogs, their pain, their struggles. And for the first time, it hits me — I’m not alone.
We go through this hell, and we think no one understands. We isolate. We spiral. But then we hit that breaking point, and when we finally reach out, we realize — we were never alone at all.
After the bath, I thought about us. The good moments. Those rare, fleeting times when I felt at peace. When the pain was gone.
Watching the New Year in at the South Bank Centre.
Standing there as Mount Stromboli erupted, lava flowing down — magic.
But even in those moments, my mind never let me stay. The anxiety would creep in. Does she wish she saw this without me? Is she thinking about leaving? And just like that, the moment was gone. Stolen by my own fucking thoughts.
I should have just been there. In it. Sharing those moments instead of overanalyzing them. But my mind never let me.
I was also reading about silent retreats today. Just sitting in silence, no distractions, nothing but your own mind. That’s something I think I need. Something I think I’m ready for.
Then there’s Ayahuasca. I keep reading about how it brings people clarity, how it forces you to face yourself. But I wonder — would it push me over the edge? Would I spiral into full psychosis? Would I fear it if I did?
The Fear That Controlled Me
I hated relying on you. Living out of your pocket the last few months. It made me feel less than. Worthless.
After losing my scaffolding business, I started delivering for Amazon. At first, it was weird, but I didn’t mind it. Until we started having issues.
You’d text me your feelings. And boom. Panic mode.
She’s leaving.
I need to get home.
I still have packages to deliver, but I need to get home.
Time passes. Stress builds. The pressure of work and home crashing into each other. And then, by the time I do get home, I’m on edge. Defensive. Making everything worse.
I vent.
I let things out that I was too scared to say before.
They build up.
We argue.
Your feelings get lost in the crossfire.
That was never your fault.
I would say it was my fault, but in truth — it was fear.
Fear of abandonment.
Fear of not being enough.
Fear of history repeating itself.
I see now how that panic could have looked like love bombing. How my desperate attempts to fix things — buying flowers, running baths, walking on eggshells — could have come across as manipulative.
But in my head, it wasn’t manipulation. It was terror.
The Moment It All Hit Me
I’ve spent my entire life fighting.
Fighting for survival.
Fighting against myself.
Fighting against my own mind.
And now, as I sit here, feeling lost — like I’m in an ICU bed after a traumatic accident — I feel something I haven’t felt before.
A strange calm.
Maybe this daily writing is working.
Maybe, for the first time in my life, I’m reconnecting to my own soul.
I had to break. Completely. In unimaginable ways.
Because I was too stubborn to stop. Too proud to ask for help.
I kept going. Like a warrior who knows nothing but battle.
But looking back, each one of those battles —
Each stress.
Each trauma.
Each fucking war in my head —
Any one of them was enough to tip someone over the edge.
I had at least eight going on at once.
And I still refused to lay down my sword.
I told myself:
I’m strong.
I’m not a failure.
I don’t need help.
I can keep going.
And then I broke.
I was savagely wounded.
The battle was over.
And I finally realized —
You don’t have to fight anymore.
You don’t have to carry it all alone.
It’s okay to be vulnerable.
It’s okay to cry.
It’s okay to ask for help.
Because you’re only human.
The Truth About Strength
Let me say this now. This way of thinking has to change.
We all need to know that real strength isn’t in fighting alone.
Real strength is facing it.
Owning it.
Getting help before it consumes you.
Today, I read other people’s posts.
And instead of just thinking, Yeah, I feel that, I actually responded.
And for the first time, instead of feeling completely alone, I felt heard.
Thank you for that.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Hugo Jehanne on Unsplash
