Survive

The pressure in my chest was unbearable, my limbs paralyzed as I sank deeper. My lungs burned, on the verge of bursting, deprived of oxygen. Just as I thought I’d disappear into this hopeless abyss, my body did the impossible—it adapted. I learned to breathe in the water surrounding me, as if life itself was mocking my pain. Some people believe that attacking others is the hardest thing to do to survive. But there’s something far more difficult: sacrificing your pride.

Guilt over what you’ve done to others is one thing, but the shame of losing yourself—of giving up the very core of who you are—is a shift in reality that never gets easier. The only driving force left is your brain’s primal desperation to keep living. Even as you feel empty, you keep moving forward. Guilt becomes powerless against the overwhelming ocean of shame that drowns you. And once you’ve been submerged in it long enough, once you’ve grown numb to the concept of shame, the world is never the same again. You come to recognize a truth most people would never admit. Pride and shame—they’re just useless words, relics of a life you were never lucky enough to have.

You begin to see others’ pride as a facade, a fragile mask against the raw, unforgiving world outside the comforts of society. Living like a wild animal leaves an indelible mark, one that makes the delicate scaffolding of society painfully clear. It’s so fragile—so delicate—that too much awareness of its fragility could shatter it entirely. And when you’re on the side of the animals, you never forget what that society did to you. Pride and shame fade, replaced by an anger that grows stronger with time. You see everything for what it truly is, but the truth is so horrific you rarely have the luxury to dwell on it.

Here I am, still floating in that ocean. I’ve learned to breathe, and it’s kept me alive, but it doesn’t feel like living. I can’t sense my surroundings. I can’t feel anything—no emotions, no connection to it all. If you asked me why I’m still alive, I’d only shrug. I survived, I guess.

At first, it was panic driving me forward. I need to keep my job. I need to find somewhere safe to sleep tonight. Over time, it got harder. Places to sleep became fewer, food more expensive. I worked 80 hours a week because I had nowhere else to go. No matter how much I worked, it was never enough—I wasn’t even old enough to sign a lease.

I was dirty. No clean clothes, no regular access to a shower. That’s where I first noticed a small change. There was no self-esteem to be found in my appearance when I couldn’t do anything about it. That small shift marked the start of a steep decline—losing myself, piece by piece. As exhaustion grew and self-esteem fell, I started dissociating more and more. What were the lines I swore I’d never cross? I can’t recall anymore. All that’s left of me now is the burning hunger. My actions are driven by the simplest, most primal needs.

Like an animal, I began doing whatever was necessary for the basics. People stopped being people. When they got angry at me for my opportunism, I felt nothing. All I could think was, Where am I going to sleep tonight?

I walked miles to get anywhere I needed to go. I manipulated and lied in ways I once vowed to avoid. The fear of the creeping weariness—that suffocating fatigue too close to death—drove me forward. I never thought of myself as afraid of death. Even now, I don’t think I am. But the slow build of its inevitability ripped panic out of me like an instinct. Before I could second-guess my actions, I was already doing whatever it took to survive. I knew they’d feel betrayed, feel used. I knew it would end badly. But I had no time for regret. Solving the immediate problem was all I could manage, hoping that a few hours of sleep might clear my mind for the next challenge. Sleep—it’s a luxury now, but a necessary one.

The world moves on without you. You’re nothing but an audience, watching others live while you scrape by. You’re standing next to them, but in two different worlds. Two worlds exist within the same space, yet only one can perceive the other. You’ve been outcast from their world, sacrificed by society to maintain its illusion. Society feeds on people like you, uses your suffering to serve others. You didn’t ask for this—you were just born here. People smiled at you as you crumbled. It didn’t matter that you were a child. No one would save you.

That ugly reality was a shift in my world, like standing in a parallel universe where no one could hear the screaming but me.

Everything society offers to people like us is built on the consumption of other lives. Your life was a gamble you didn’t choose, but couldn’t refuse. Judgment lost all meaning. Their opinions, their biases—pointless platitudes born of ignorance. My life, my struggles, weren’t real to them. I drowned in an ocean of shame until I couldn’t feel shame anymore.

What would they have done in my position? Could they sacrifice everything I’ve lost and still make it out on the other side? I’ll never know the answer. I don’t blame them. They simply don’t understand.

I survived. With the help of friends, I escaped the nightmare. I got out. I stayed out. But did I really? Standing here in society’s world, things are different, but the truth of it—dark and unyielding—still stains everything. I can still hear the screams. Escaping that animal-like existence didn’t erase what I learned about it. Every smiling face reminds me of the misery that thrives in the shadows. Unlike my friends, I can still see the other world. I see the direct line between misery and prosperity, a cruel tether that binds them together.

In the end, society gets the last laugh. Though my situation has improved, I’m haunted by the ghosts of the past. They linger, robbing me of any real joy in my achievements. I’ve always been the punchline.

Anger reigns in the back of my mind, a constant, unwelcome guest. I was dragged into this world without consent, just to be offered up as society’s sacrificial lamb. And when I fought tooth and nail to escape, even then, real freedom was denied. I can never feel the same as anyone else. That’s the hardest loss survival brings—the inability to belong.

So, what does it mean to survive? It means doing whatever it takes, even if it means sacrificing who you are inside. For what purpose? Because you have to. There’s no time to question the motivations of your actions. All that remains is the surging rage of it all, leaving you to wonder if survival is nothing more than breathing through the pain.

To survive is to learn truths worse than death or even murder. It’s discovering horrors you never dreamed existed, things so cruel they defy imagination. People who recoil at the thought of death or violence seem wholesome, untouched, innocent. I envy their naivety.

I hope you never find yourself having to make those choices. I hope you never learn that survival is the deepest loss of all. Because there’s another world, an invisible one, existing alongside the visible. Its mistress is cruelty, and she refuses to be forgotten.