Almost Alive

I can feel it again.

The tightness.

The way it wraps itself around my throat like a hand I didn’t invite.

The way my feet won’t stay still, how they shake like they’re trying to run — even though there’s nowhere to go.

The way my stomach turns and turns and turns. I want to throw up, but there’s nothing to bring up. I haven’t eaten in days. I haven’t wanted to.

The darkness is back.

Not loud or screaming — just… creeping.

It sits behind my eyes and breathes down my neck.

It’s cold. Familiar. Not a stranger anymore, not something I can fight like a villain in a story. It’s softer than that. More patient. It waits for me. Every time.

I have a routine.

I wake up by 6.

I brush. I drink water. I show up to class by 8.

I sit through it, smile sometimes, nod when I’m supposed to.

By 3, I’m back. And then time… just blurs.

I scroll. I stare. I lie down.

I count the hours until it’s not “too early” to sleep.

And then I do it all again.

I look like I’m functioning.

But there’s a fog between me and the world.

And when I reach for the things I love, I come up empty.

There’s no joy. No spark.

Just exhaustion that doesn’t come from doing too much — it comes from feeling too much and saying nothing.

Some days, I want to scream.

Loud, sharp, terrifying.

But it feels like if I open my mouth, something uncontrollable will come out.

Like I’d burn.

Like I’d ruin everything in the fire.

People keep asking me what’s wrong. I don’t know how to answer.

Nothing, I say. Or everything.

And they mean the same thing.

I’m tired.

Not “I need a nap” tired.

Not “school is stressful” tired.

I mean bone-tired. Soul-tired.

The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep. The kind that just settles in your body like it’s paying rent.

I miss myself.

The version of me that laughed loudly.

That created things just because it felt good to.

The one that didn’t need to fight so hard just to exist.

I want to feel better.

I do.

And I know people are scared to hear things like this because they think it means I’ll do something drastic.

But I won’t.

I won’t.

I just need to say it —

that I am tired.

That I don’t want to die, but I don’t really feel alive either.

That this version of life — this numb, grey, quiet version — is not enough.

I want to want things again.

To feel hunger. Joy. Rest.

To wake up and not dread the day before it even starts.

But for now, I’m just here.

Waking. Drinking water. Showing up. Sleeping.

Hoping that one day, this weight will lift.

And I’ll be able to say,

“I made it.”

Not with pride or strength.

But with softness. Relief. Breath.

Like someone who finally reached the shore after almost drowning quietly in the middle of a crowd.

~Emma🦋