I don't want to be him again!

Between 2017 and 2021, there was a version of me who simply survived. I would wake up, go to work, come home, have dinner, then go out alone and take photos. It was a lonely life, but I didn’t feel lonely. Honestly, I didn’t feel much at all. I was just going through the motions, accepting that this was my life, that this was all it would ever be.

Before 2017, though, things were different. I spent nearly a decade trapped in depression, unable to work, not because I didn’t try, but because how do you explain to an employer that the gap in your résumé exists because you were attacked by five men, one of them holding a knife? That afterward, you slipped into a darkness so deep it swallowed you whole? How do you put that into words on an application form, in an interview, in a way that doesn’t make them hesitate, that doesn’t make them see you as damaged?

So when I finally found work, when I was able to get through my days, life felt… okay. Not great, not fulfilling, but stable. I didn’t expect much from life, so I didn’t feel the weight of disappointment. I had my routine. I worked. I came home. And on weekends, I took photos. That was my escape, my quiet form of expression. That was my life.

Then, in 2022, something happened. Something unexpected. Something that changed everything.

I met someone.

I found a real connection.

And I fell in love.

It caught me off guard because I had long accepted that love wasn’t in my future. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted it. I wanted to find connection, to share my life with someone, to have a partner, to get married. But I didn’t believe it was possible for me. The attack, the years of depression, the betrayals I had endured, they had changed me. They had made me more serious, more cautious, more closed off. I had learned, over and over again, that people left when you needed them most. That trust was fragile. That it was safer to keep people at arm’s length.

And yet, there she was.

She was different. She had this carefree, artistic, creative spirit, everything I admired, everything I wished I could be. And I was this reserved, guarded person, watching her in awe, not understanding how someone like her could be interested in someone like me. It felt like winning the lottery. Like, for once, the universe had decided to give me a break, to say, this guy has been through hell, he deserves some happiness.

But then, just as unexpectedly as it came, it was gone.

I won’t go into the details, but the job I had at the time played a part in it. And when it all unraveled, I lost more than just love, I lost my sense of self.

I had promised myself I would never go back to being the person I was between 2017 and 2021, just existing, just surviving. But the last couple of years have been rough, and the last eight months have been even harder. I find myself back in that place, struggling under the weight of everything I’m feeling. I’m alone again. But this time, I feel it.

I feel the loneliness.

I don’t have connections to anyone or anything, not even my photography. And it’s not for lack of trying. I do try. But after everything that’s happened, I find it hard to trust, hard to connect. I find myself withdrawing again, shutting down, reverting to the version of me that protects me by keeping me separate from the world.

I am back to surviving.

And I don’t know how to change that. Or if I even want to.

I read a lot now, more than I ever have before. And lately, I find myself drawn to books on mental health. It’s not just casual curiosity; it’s a need, a quiet desperation to make sense of the chaos in my mind. It’s obvious why. You don’t devour pages about depression, anxiety, low self-esteem, and relationships unless you’re trying to untangle something within yourself.

The mind has always fascinated me, how it works, why we think and feel the way we do. But now, that interest feels different. It’s not just academic. It’s personal. Urgent. Because I’m not just reading to understand the mind; I’m reading to understand my mind. How I got here. Why I feel the way I do. Why, no matter how much progress I think I’ve made, I still seem to end up back in the same place.

And maybe that’s what haunts me the most, not just that I’m struggling, but that I keep circling back. The same pain. The same loneliness. The same exhaustion of simply existing.

So I don’t just read. I write.

Not just in a journal, but here, in a space where I can be honest, where I can put the thoughts in my head into words and maybe, just maybe, make some sense of them. Because sometimes, it’s not until I write something down that I even realize what I’m feeling. The words hit the page, and suddenly, I see myself a little clearer. I understand things I couldn’t put into words before.

And when I do find that understanding, when I do see growth, I hold onto it. Because I know how easily it can slip away. I’ve been disappointed too many times, torn down just when I thought I was moving forward. And every time, it feels like I have to start over, like someone has ripped out the part of me that was beginning to heal.

So I keep reading. I keep writing. I keep trying to figure myself out, even if the answers feel just out of reach.

Because maybe, somewhere in all these pages, I’ll find the answer.

Or maybe I won’t.

But I have to keep looking.