I met my biggest Bully

I am uninterested when it comes to life. I don’t only find life meaningless but I am starting to find life unlivable.  This is what has become of my so-called life. Am I obligated to keep on living it? What is the point of living when you don’t feel alive? I believe that is the first ever philosophical question I ever asked myself. I still haven’t found the answer. That is my state of mind lately. A little bit of resentment, a little bit of hate and a whole lot of anger. Furious. Getting angry is tiring. Convincing people you are fine is tiring. Even being miserable comes with a price. Every “What's up?” Every “What is wrong?” must be avoided. There is no point in talking about it. So you busy yourself not to feel anything you overwork yourself not to listen to your body. To prove your worth.

You break down in front of your pc because your hands won’t move and your fingers are unable to type a single word. You can’t finish a single article that is near its due date. You thought that was bad? You have three more strategies you need to finish. You have made a commitment and you must deliver. Nobody cares about your crippling anxiety. Nobody cares about your imposter syndrome or all of your insecurities. Just get it done.

So you convince yourself to stop sulking and just go through with it. And you do. It passes. You deliver but find new ways to condescend yourself. You tell yourself you just got lucky. You tell yourself how you are such a spoiled cry baby incompetent, talentless and will never be good enough. Then you remember how you speak to your self is how you were spoken to as a child. So you start to blame your parents for you being this burden of a human being. This dysfunctional adult.

Turns out, my biggest bully wasn’t in the playground. Or at work. Or lurking in the comment section of my life. No. I live with her. I wake up with her. I breathe with her. She's got my face, my voice, and she’s really committed to the bit. I met my biggest bully—and she’s been living rent-free in my skull, eating snacks and throwing insults like it’s her full-time job.

You see, I used to think life was hard because of life. Rent, heartbreak, that one relative who thinks you’re a failed investment. But Life is hard because I’ve become my own personal hell manager. I overthink, overwork, overfeel—and when I don’t feel, I panic because now I’m underfeeling, which obviously must be a sign of a deeper mental collapse.

There is no in-between. Either I’m numb like a potato in the fridge, or I’m spiraling like a blender with the lid off. And don’t get me started on the future. Stressing about a future I might not be in.

Meanwhile, God and I? we’re not exactly on speaking terms. I mean, shoutout to the Big Guy for making sunsets and potatoes but what’s with all this chaos? What’s the lesson here? Character development? I don’t want character. I want peace. A little house, a soft bed, a mother who can breathe freely, and the kind of joy that doesn’t come with a panic attack on the side.

But no, I get suffering and spiritual gaslighting. You’re “being shaped.” Into what? A human stress ball?I’ve tried all the coping strategies. Writing? Used to be my escape, but now my fingers stage a mutiny every time I try to type. Meditation? Makes me more aware of my misery. Praying? I can’t tell if I’m having a spiritual conversation or leaving voicemails to a disconnected line.

And just when you think the worst critic is the world—it’s you. Sitting there, whispering things your parents once said in passing. Playing the greatest hits of “You’re lazy,” “You’re too emotional,”  “You’ll never be enough.” Wow. Grammy-worthy performance. Encore?

It’s funny, isn’t it? I spend my life trying to prove I’m worth something while being the main person convinced I’m not. Camus said the meaning of life is whatever stops you from killing yourself. For me? It’s spite. And the occasional potatoes.

I’m tired. Not sleepy tired—existential tired. Tired of trying to be functional in a dysfunctional world. Tired of carrying pain like it’s a designer purse. Tired of surviving instead of living. But I’m still here. Still waking up. Still sipping tea. Still yelling at God. Still bullying myself with prose and poetry.

I don’t need to be healed or whole or even hopeful. I just need to keep showing up—and maybe be a little kinder to the girl in the mirror. Because while she may be a mess, she’s my mess. And she’s got one hell of a sense of humor.