Waiting

I’m not suicidal. I want to say that first, because it’s easy to hear this the wrong way.

What I mean is quieter. It’s a feeling that life ends. It’s inevitable. So I wait for death. I make the time pass and don’t get too involved in anything.

I’m here, but I’m not really in it.

It doesn’t feel like sadness, exactly. It feels flat. Things happen, days go by, and I’m watching from a distance.

I think a lot of people live like this and don’t say it out loud, because from the outside they look fine. And because it isn’t a crisis, it’s easy to tell yourself it isn’t a problem.

But I’ve started to think it is worth noticing. Waiting isn’t the same as living. Some of what I’ve been calling “being realistic” might just be a way of staying uninvolved, so nothing can get close enough to matter.

I don’t have a fix for it. What I’m trying is small: picking one thing a day and letting myself actually be in it, even for a few minutes.

If this sounds like you, you’re not broken, and you’re not alone in it. If it ever turns into something heavier, please read If it’s bad right now, or call or text 988.

I’ll send the next one. You can leave whenever you want.