• 25 Nov, 2025 *

today, a friend asked me how i was doing.

i said,

“i’m starting to feel like i will never escape this fear, of being perpetually not cut out for this world the rest of you seem to exist in.”

i gestured at a lot of things as i said this.

the room in front of us, where i conceptually now have a job as a game designer and programmer. the city outside, where i spent the last 6 years finally growing up. the world at large. all of it.

she laughed, and then apologised, and then gave me a highfive.

“i get it. i know how you feel, hana. i think a lot of people out there like you know how you feel.”

i don’t know if i’d believe those words from anyone else.

have you ever had to explain to someone how dysfunctional you are?

a doctor, a job provider, any kind of professional. your parents. co-workers. friends. it doesn’t really matter.

how do you explain that the front of functionality they see is exactly that, a front? a mask?

that you cannot and will not allow them to see anything else. you can’t. no matter how ancient and empty and burnt out you feel, you hide the horror of your impotence behind a facade, because to let anyone else see would be some kind of death.

maybe the facade is jokes, brushing it off, acknowledging it at an angle that makes it look smaller than it really is. maybe you are burning away pieces of yourself every time you have to drag another day of pretense out of the ether. maybe you’ve just gotten really good at being convinently elsewhere and alone when the breakdown comes. maybe it’s all of them. it’s all the same thing.

whatever way you hide it, the result is that no matter how hard you try, you can never quite explain what the other side of the coin looks like. how absolutely, crushingly powerless you feel trying to just function sometimes.

this morning i had a shower. i stood under the water and stared blankly at the glass in front of me, and i tried not to start sobbing as i quietly chanted,

“we’ve managed to shower twice this week.” “i’m getting better.” “i’m getting better.” “i’m getting better.”

you have to convince yourself its true. to stop convincing yourself would be some kind of death.

even in private, alone with your thoughts, it feels like you can never truly let yourself confront how dysfunctional you are.

knowing that i’m not alone in this should be reassuring. and, i suppose the commiseration was nice, for a moment. a little light.

mostly it just makes me despair that much harder. if she hasn’t found the answer, if none of them have... how am i meant to?

day by day, all we can do is keep living until we eventually experience some kind of death.