"I Don’t Want to Die. I Just Don’t Want to Keep Waking Up Like This."

It’s not death I’m chasing. It’s silence. A break. A pause in the unbearable hum of existence that starts the second I open my eyes. It’s not that I hate life. It’s that I’m exhausted from surviving it. I wake up already tired, like I’ve lived a full day in my dreams — a nightmare marathon I don’t remember running. My body wakes up before I do, and by the time my mind catches up, I already wish it hadn’t.

I scroll before I even sit up, not because I care what’s on my phone, but because it’s the easiest way to ignore what’s in my head. The likes, the reels, the dopamine crumbs — they’re all distractions. Little pacifiers for my pain. It works for five minutes. Maybe seven. Then the ache creeps back in, like cold seeping under the door. I feel it in my chest. In my ribs. In my spine. It’s not sharp. It’s dull. Familiar. Heavy. The kind of pain that doesn’t scream — it whispers: “You again.”

I drink coffee like it’s holy water, hoping it will bless me with enough strength to pretend again. Pretend I care. Pretend I’m okay. Pretend I’m not unraveling one sigh at a time. Some days I even laugh. Some days I get things done. And I fool everyone — even myself — into thinking I’ve turned a corner. But by nightfall, the hollowness returns. Not loud. Not violent. Just persistent. Like background static you can’t tune out.

People say, “You should talk to someone.” And I nod. I smile. I lie. Because I don’t want advice. I want understanding. I want someone to say, “I get it. I feel that too.” Not because misery loves company. But because pain needs witness. I want someone to look at me without asking me to explain the mess that I am. Just sit in it with me. Quietly. Without flinching.

I’m tired of being grateful. Tired of forcing sunshine into sentences that were born from storm clouds. I know I have things to be thankful for. That’s what makes it worse. The guilt of sadness when life isn’t that bad. The shame of not having a reason to feel this low. So I bury it deeper. Smile wider. Drown myself in to-do lists and podcasts and fake productivity. I chase purpose like a cure, but nothing sticks. Everything feels temporary. Fleeting. Empty.

I sleep, but it’s not rest. It’s just escape. A few hours where I don’t have to perform being human. But even then, my dreams are cluttered with unfinished conversations and faceless fears. I wake up again. Again. Again. Always again. Like some sick joke on repeat. And each time I wonder how many more “agains” I can take.

But here’s the part I don’t say out loud: I still hope. That maybe one day I’ll wake up and the weight will be gone. Or lighter. That maybe I’ll look in the mirror and see someone I recognize. Someone I like. I don’t want to die. Truly. I just want to stop hurting. I want peace. Real peace. Not the kind you fake in filtered photos. The kind you feel in your bones.

So no, I’m not giving up. I’m just tired. I’m just scared. I’m just human. And if you feel this too — if your mornings feel like mourning — you’re not alone. I see you. I feel you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to keep going. One more morning. One more try. One more “again.”