Time moves forward, indifferent to the struggles it leaves in its wake. With every passing day, I have tried to build myself up, piece by fragile piece. I work out daily, pushing my body to its limits, as though by sculpting my exterior, I might fortify the brokenness within. I keep my surroundings clean, as if maintaining order outside might somehow create clarity inside. And yet, no matter how hard I try, the suffocating weight of family expectations remains. It presses down relentlessly, an unseen force that saps the joy from every small victory.
My family, too, seems indifferent. They've grown comfortable with their lives, with the rhythms of routine, with the roles they've settled into. I have three sisters, each of them thriving in ways that simultaneously fill me with pride and dread. Two are living abroad, working respectable jobs, carving out lives of independence in faraway lands. The third resides closer to home, a teacher shaping young minds, forging her path with purpose and grace.
I watch them and wonder how they've managed it. How did they rise above the same childhood, the same household, the same history that seems to shackle me? We were all born of the same mother, raised under the same roof, with the same father and the same set of rules—or lack thereof. And yet, while they seem to have conquered the challenges of their upbringing, I find myself caught in quicksand, sinking further with every struggle to escape.
-I admire them. Truly, I do- I admire their resilience, their ability to move forward, to laugh, to enjoy life despite everything. But with that admiration comes a gnawing sense of inadequacy, a relentless whisper in the back of my mind: Why can't you be like them?
They've lived twice the life I have, perhaps more. And yet here I am, barely halfway through, and already teetering on the edge. The breaking point feels so close, its pull almost magnetic. Dark thoughts linger, uninvited and unrelenting. There are moments when the idea of ending it all—of leaping from a building and letting the chaos fade to silence—feels like a relief rather than a tragedy.
But even in those moments, a part of me hesitates. A part of me clings to the notion that there might be more, that there might be hope, that I might somehow break free from this invisible prison. And yet, that hesitation is not born of courage. No, it feels like cowardice—an inability to take even the final step to escape the pain.
I am stuck, caught between admiration for the strength of my sisters and loathing for my own weakness. Between the desire to persevere and the temptation to surrender. Between who I am and who I wish I could be.
This is the reality I wake to every day. And though I try to build myself up, to create something worth living for, the cracks still remains. The weight of expectations is heavy, and the road ahead feels impossibly long.
-Ahh i am such a coward-
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