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Still Here, Still Breathing

 Today didn’t crush me the way the last few did. The weight was still there, pressing against my chest, but just a little lighter. I stepped outside, felt the air on my skin. I even got something I had been waiting for—a moment I had envisioned countless times, believing it would bring relief. But when it arrived, it was like unwrapping a long-awaited gift only to find it hollow inside.

I didn’t do any work today. I tried—I really did. Opened my laptop, stared at the screen, ran my fingers over the keyboard as if the right words or logic would just appear. But my mind felt fogged, heavy, unwilling to cooperate.

After 3 PM, I gave up. There was no point in forcing it. I dropped an email explaining that I was sick, turned off my laptop, and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Then around 4pm I actually felt sick.

This happens to me. Some days, I work relentlessly, losing myself in the flow, achieving more in hours than some do in days. And then there are days like this—where even writing a single line of code feels impossible, like trying to move mountains with my bare hands.

I wonder if my mind will ever find a balance, or if I’m destined to swing between extremes forever. 

I wonder where it all went wrong. Was it in my first breath, the moment I entered this world? A curse stitched into my bones before I even had the words to understand it? Or was it in my mother’s voice, sharp like broken glass, carving into my soul with every curse? Or was it the fists, the names, the laughter of those who saw me as something to break? Or the hands that touched me when they had no right to? 

Maybe it wasn’t one moment but a series of them, layered upon each other like bricks in a collapsing house.

Maybe this disorder—the chaos in my mind, the scars on my skin, the weight in my chest—is the price I had to pay for everything I have achieved. Maybe success was never meant to come without a cost. But still, I can’t help but feel a quiet pride. Because from where I started, where I stand now should have been impossible.

And yet, here I am. Struggling, yes. Stumbling, always. But still breathing, still trying despite countless setbacks. And that has to count for something, right?

Even on the days when the weight feels unbearable, when my thoughts try to convince me that I am nothing more than the sum of my scars, I am still here. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring—another step forward or another fall into the abyss.
But for now, I exist. I endure.

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