Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

Today feels like the world’s weight has finally broken me. I don’t even know how to start untangling this mess, this avalanche of poor decisions and cruel twists of fate. Maybe if I had just waited, just let the world carry me without the safety net of that phone… But I didn’t, and now I’m drowning.

It all started with the phone—my lifeline, my everything. Two years of use, and it betrayed me, just shut down completely like it knew how vulnerable I was without it. I panicked. How could I not? That phone wasn’t just a luxury; it was how I navigated life. I have no backup, no laptop, no other way to connect, to reach out. And there was no way I could tell Dad. He’d look at me, disappointed, maybe even angry. Two years? He’d point out how my sister managed to stretch hers for four. I couldn’t bear the comparison again, couldn’t stand being the letdown yet another time.

So, I made the decision. A bad one, but it felt like survival in the moment. Fifteen thousand shillings—that’s what it cost to fix. It wasn’t like I had the money, but I told myself it was fine. The student grant would come in soon, and I could use that to repay the person whose money I borrowed. I promised myself that everything would work out. But it didn’t.

The days turned into weeks, and the grant never came. It was supposed to be my safety net, and now I’m free-falling. The lender started pushing, their patience running thin. I could hear it in their voice, the edge of irritation, the thinly veiled threats. I’d lie awake at night, heart racing, stomach churning, thinking of what they’d do if I couldn’t pay them back. The fear wrapped around me, squeezing tighter each day.

So, I borrowed more. It was the only way I could see out of the immediate problem. Another loan to pay the first. And then another. A patchwork solution that only made the hole deeper. I couldn’t even stop myself when it spiraled into madness—I used my first semester’s fees to pay some of it back. I told myself I’d figure it out. I’d scrape the money together somehow. But the reality is, there’s nothing left to scrape. I’m drowning in debt with no source of income, and each passing day is a reminder of my failures.

The regret is suffocating. Every time I look at that phone, I feel it—a mix of anger and despair. It’s the constant, mocking reminder of how it all started. Was it really worth it? Fifteen thousand shillings to fix a lifeline that’s now tethered me to this nightmare? I’ve started to hate myself for it, for every decision I made since that moment. I’ve called myself names I wouldn’t dare say aloud. I’ve cried until there were no more tears, until the numbness set in.

And then there are the whispers in my mind, the dark thoughts I’m too scared to say outright. Maybe it would be easier if I weren’t here to deal with this mess. Maybe everyone else would be better off without the burden of my mistakes. The thought creeps in during the quiet moments, filling the silence with its venom. I try to push it away, but it lingers, like an uninvited guest that refuses to leave.

I’ve thought about telling Dad. I’ve imagined sitting him down, explaining everything. But then I picture his face—the disappointment, the frustration—and I can’t do it. I’ve always been the one who messed up, the one who couldn’t measure up. My sister’s phone lasted four years. Four. Mine barely made it to two, and here I am, in a pit of debt because I couldn’t handle being without it for a little while.

I feel like I’ve let everyone down, including myself. I used to think I had potential, that I could make something of my life. But now? Now I’m not so sure. Maybe I’m just the sum of my failures, a walking disaster who ruins everything she touches.

If there’s any hope left, it’s buried so deep that I can’t see it. All I have now is regret and a growing sense of despair. I want to believe this is temporary, that I can claw my way out of this hole, but it’s hard to hold onto that belief when the weight of everything threatens to crush me every second of every day.

I don’t know what’s next, Diary. I don’t know if I can fix this. But I’ll keep writing. Maybe putting these thoughts down will help me figure it out. Or maybe it’ll just be a record of how far I’ve fallen.