I don’t even know how to start this. It’s been over a week since I got the news — my friend killed himself. On my birthday. I still don’t know how to feel about it. Most of the time, I just feel hollow. Numb. Like the bottom dropped out and never came back. I haven’t written anything. I haven’t touched code. I have no motivation. I barely have the energy to wake up. Lately, I only get out of bed when I’m too hungry to ignore it. Not because I want to, just because my body forces me to. Everything feels pointless
And on top of all that, there’s the pressure. I failed my exam twice, so now everyone expects me to redo it. But I don’t want to. No one knows this — not my friends, not my family — but I was diagnosed with dyslexia. eventually got a formal diagnosis. Along with that came something else: another email that said I might also have a visual processing disorder. Two months later, that got confirmed too Visual Processing processing disorder. I haven’t told anyone, because honestly, I feel like it makes me sound stupid. I feel stupid. Even writing that out makes me feel ashamed.
But looking back, it all makes sense. Even as a kid, I struggled with basic things — I couldn’t tell left from right. I still can't, really. I just fake it. I’m left-handed, so whenever someone asks me for directions, I just try to feel which hand is my dominant one and go with that. It’s ridiculous, but I’ve been doing it for years. That’s how I survive socially. I just hide it.
Now everyone around me keeps pushing me to retake that exam. They keep saying things like, “It’s easy,” or “You’ll pass this time,” but they don’t understand. I know it’s supposed to be easy, but for me, it’s not. It’s like the letters fall apart when I look at them. My brain goes blank. I sit down to write, and I forget how to form words. I forget how to read. And I don’t mean that in a dramatic way — I mean I literally can’t keep track of the sentences. I can still read and write, sure, but not under pressure. Not when it comes to academic stuff, especially here, especially in Nepal. The structure, the expectations — it’s not made for someone like me.
People just look at the exam and think it’s no big deal. But for me, it’s like staring into fog. I look at the page, and suddenly nothing makes sense. I forget the letters. I lose my place. And I hate myself for it.
I’ve struggled with every subject growing up. It never came easy. But somehow, over time, I managed to get through. I don’t even know how. English, weirdly enough, became easier for me than my own native language. I got better at it — way better. Eventually, I even started thinking in English. Not consciously, just... naturally. It became my second nature. My thoughts stopped forming in my mother tongue. English took over.
I also know Hindi, but I’ve never really liked the language. I picked it up because I had to, not because I wanted to. And now, somehow, I’ve ended up with a Hindi or Indian accent when I speak English — even though I’m not Indian. People online, especially on Discord, always assume I’m from India the moment I speak. “Are you from India?” they ask. It happens all the time. And I get it — that’s what my accent sounds like. But it’s frustrating. I’m not talking about the country — I’m talking about how it feels to carry an identity that doesn’t fit. An accent that doesn’t match where I’m from, or who I think I am. It’s like I’ve spent so long adapting that I don’t even recognize how I sound anymore.
It’s not that I can’t speak other languages — I can. I’ve recently even picked up an English accent, but it still feels unnatural. It doesn’t flow the way my Hindi-accented English does, the one I accidentally developed just by spending time on Discord with people who spoke that way. That one stuck without effort. But this new English accent — the one I trained myself into — it feels strange every time I try to use it.
I know I can speak in it. I could hold a conversation in it right now. But something holds me back. I keep wondering what the other person will think. Will they think I’m faking it? Trying too hard? Pretending to be someone I’m not? That self-doubt stops me. So even when I can speak naturally in that accent, I don’t. I retreat. I go quiet
And now, here I am — not knowing how to start this. Not knowing if this is a final goodbye or just another breakdown. I still haven’t told most people about the dyslexia and visual processing disorder. Only two people know. That’s it. No one else. Not even my family.
I don’t know how to say it. I don’t know how to bring it up. How do you even start a sentence like that? “By the way, I have dyslexia and a visual processing disorder”? What if they don’t believe me? What if they think I’m just making excuses for failing? That I’m faking it to avoid responsibility? That’s what terrifies me. So, I just stay quiet.
Lately, I’ve just felt… done. Like everything I’ve lived through, every decision I’ve made, is pressing down on me all at once. The depression, the anxiety it’s all back. I know it is. I can feel it creeping in again, like I’ve returned to a version of myself I thought I’d left behind. And honestly? I don’t know how to talk about it anymore. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know how this ends. I just know I’m tired. I just want peace. I want to rest. I want the noise to stop. Whenever I start to think about my past, I realize how much I’ve carried since I was young. When I was a kid, I never thought I’d live to see 16. After I got past 16, I didn’t think I’d make it to my twenties. When I was 14, I never expected to reach my 18th birthday. That’s just how it was — a constant expectation that I wouldn’t be here for long.
Now, I don’t know if anything will change in the future. I honestly doubt it. That feeling of emptiness has been with me for so long. Most of my teenage years weren’t about fun or freedom or growth — they were about anxiety. Deep, dissociative anxiety. While other people look back at their teens and say those were some of the best years, I can’t say that. I never will.
Sometimes, what you know doesn’t matter. What you feel takes over completely. You do something drastic because of that feeling — and then you regret it for the rest of your life. That’s what it feels like inside me.
Yet, I don’t see myself reaching my twenties. I don’t see five years ahead. There’s this sinking feeling inside me — a bad omen — that I won’t survive. That I’ll die younger than anyone else I know. Younger than my peers, younger than my friends. That my life will end before it really begins. It’s like this shadow follows me, and no matter how much I want to outrun it, it’s always just behind me.
Those teenage years were... weird. When puberty hit, everything inside me shifted, and I felt completely lost. Depressed, really. Even now, writing this, I’m not sure if I want to share it with anyone. I don’t know if I’ll ever publish these words or if someone will hate them. But the truth is, I never enjoyed my teenage years. From the moment I turned 13 or 14, I felt like my time was running out. I actually tried to end my life three times when I was 14. Somehow, I survived — and I don’t even know if I should call that luck. All I wanted then was to rest, to feel that numb emptiness I’m finally starting to put into words now. Back then, I knew what I was doing, but I kept it all to myself. I didn’t want anyone to know. I never had the typical teenage experience. Anxiety ruled my days — social anxiety, especially. I barely spoke to anyone. I never had friends. I never got to be “normal” like everyone else.
Right now, I feel like I’m back in those dark days again. I just want to rest. To fall into a deep, peaceful sleep where nothing hurts. But even that wish feels uncertain — I don’t know if I really want it or not. It’s like what you know doesn’t matter anymore. What you feel takes over everything in the moment. You lose control. Sometimes, you don’t even know what matters logically, but your emotions drive everything you do.
It’s real. When you’re angry or overwhelmed, you don’t know what will happen next — but that feeling takes over, and it dictates your actions. That’s what it’s like now.
I just want to close this chapter. Maybe not just a chapter — maybe the whole book. This life, this version of it, whatever it is. I don’t know how to say this. I don’t know if there’s a right way to say it. But this might be my final goodbye. To everything. To everyone. Not because I hate life. Not because I want to hurt anyone. But because I’m tired. Deeply, endlessly tired. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I’m okay.
Why am I telling you all of this? I don’t know. I don’t even know why I’m telling you. Maybe because I want to close this chapter. Not just a chapter — maybe the whole book. The chapter of my life, or maybe the entire story. This might be my final goodbye. It might be... we might never speak again. This is the final goodbye.
I feel like I’m making the same mistake my friend made. But I don’t know. All I see right now is the easy way out. The peaceful rest. Rest in peace.
Not because I hate life. Not because I want to hurt anyone. But because I’m tired. Deeply, endlessly tired. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I’m okay.
It’s strange my friends sometimes tell me they feel suicidal, and I always tell them to hold on, to keep fighting, to follow their own life. But here I am, and I don’t know how to do that for myself. I know if I told them what I’m feeling, they’d probably call me a hypocrite. Honestly, I think they might. And maybe they’re right.
I encourage them not to give up because I don’t want to feel like the bad guy. I don’t want to be the one who fails to live up to my own advice. Psychologically, it’s complicated. I’m saying all the right things outwardly, but inside, I’m struggling to believe them. That’s the hardest part.