I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of my life trying to become someone I’d be happy being.
A better version of myself. More confident, more attractive, more successful, more disciplined. Someone who doesn’t need to rely on chemicals to feel normal. Someone who can walk into a room without overthinking every fucking thing he says.
I’ve always had this idea that if I could just fix enough things about myself, everything else would eventually fall into place.
When I get a better job, I’ll be happy.
When I move somewhere else, I’ll finally have a social life.
When I look better, I’ll be more confident.
When I get my shit together, maybe I’ll find someone who loves me.
There’s always something. Another condition I have to satisfy before I allow myself to actually enjoy being alive.
And the worst part? I’m painfully aware of it.
I can explain exactly why this way of thinking is irrational. I can recognize the patterns, identify the problems, and even explain the psychology behind them.
And then I go right back to doing the same fucking thing.
Understanding everything except myself#
I’ve always been curious. It’s probably the one thing about myself I’ve never really questioned.
I love figuring out how things work. Computers, chemistry, pharmacology, biology, people. Give me something I don’t understand and I’ll happily spend an entire weekend reading about it.
There’s something comforting about understanding a mechanism. Once you know why something happens, you can usually do something about it.
At least that’s what I’ve always believed.
But I’ve gradually realized that I’ve been applying the same mindset to myself.
I didn’t like how I felt, so I started researching my brain. I didn’t like my appearance, so I started researching ways to improve it. I struggled socially, so I looked for ways around that too.
I treated myself like another project.
And to be fair, some of it worked. I’ve learned an incredible amount. I’ve accomplished things I’m genuinely proud of.
But I’m still me.
The same guy who occasionally lies awake at night wondering what the fuck he’s doing with his life.
Turns out you can know quite a lot about neurotransmitters and still have absolutely no idea how to make yourself happy.
Who would’ve thought?
The kind of loneliness you get used to#
I don’t think people understand how lonely you can become without anyone really noticing.
I’ve gone months without meaningful contact with another person outside of work.
And I’m not talking about being physically alone. I actually enjoy that. I like having my own space, working on projects, reading, and doing whatever weird thing I’m currently obsessed with.
But there’s a difference between enjoying solitude and having nobody to share your life with.
Nobody to tell when something interesting happens.
Nobody who wonders why you’ve been quiet.
Nobody to come home to.
Eventually, you stop expecting anything else.
You get used to spending your weekends alone. You stop making plans. You convince yourself that you don’t really need people anyway.
And perhaps the saddest part is that you start believing it.
I’ve spent so much time trying to become independent that somewhere along the way, I confused independence with not needing anyone.
But I do need people.
Fuck, I really do.
Sometimes I don’t want another interesting project, another achievement, or another problem to solve.
I just want someone to hold me for a while.
Someone who genuinely cares whether I’m doing okay. Someone I don’t have to impress or prove anything to.
It’s embarrassing how difficult that is for me to admit.
People see what you let them see#
I think I’ve become pretty good at appearing functional.
I can show up to work, solve difficult problems, have conversations, make jokes, and act like everything is perfectly normal.
Meanwhile, I might be having one of the worst periods of my life.
I don’t necessarily want people to know when I’m struggling. Partly because I don’t want their pity, but also because I hate feeling vulnerable.
I’ve always wanted to be the person who can handle things.
The person who knows what to do.
But there have been times when I genuinely haven’t known what to do anymore.
Losing my father is something I still carry with me. There are things I wish I could tell him. Things I’d want him to see. And sometimes I wish I could just hear his voice again, without needing any particular reason.
It’s strange how life keeps moving regardless of what happens to you.
You lose someone, something falls apart, or your entire understanding of your future changes.
And the next morning, the world carries on.
People go to work. They buy groceries. They complain about the weather.
Meanwhile, you’re trying to figure out how you’re supposed to carry on with a life that suddenly feels different.
I’ve had a lot of time to think about things like that.
Probably too much.
I don’t think I ever wanted anything particularly complicated#
For most of my life, I’ve been chasing something.
Knowledge, excitement, success, improvement, stimulation. I’ve always needed something to occupy my mind.
An ordinary life sounded almost terrifying to me.
The idea of doing the same thing every day, coming home, watching television, going to bed, and repeating it for another forty years?
No fucking thanks.
But recently, I’ve started questioning whether I’ve misunderstood what I actually want.
Because when I imagine a future where I’m genuinely happy, it’s surprisingly simple.
I imagine coming home after a long day.
There’s someone waiting for me. Someone who’s happy to see me. I get a hug, a kiss, and for a moment, absolutely nothing is expected of me.
We make dinner. We talk about our day. Maybe we watch something stupid together.
I don’t have to be interesting. I don’t have to accomplish anything.
I can just exist.
And somehow, that sounds better than almost anything else I could imagine.
I’ve spent years wanting an extraordinary life, only to realize that some of the things I crave most are completely ordinary.
I think that says quite a lot about what I’ve been missing.
Hope is a strange feeling when you’re not used to it#
Something has changed recently.
I’ve met someone.
And I’m not going to pretend I know how the story ends. It’s early, and I’ve made the mistake of getting ahead of myself before.
But something about it has made me think differently.
For the first time in a while, I’ve caught myself looking forward to a future rather than just trying to escape the present.
I know how ridiculous that might sound.
A guy who spends his free time reading scientific papers, researching obscure chemicals, and obsessing over problems nobody asked him to solve suddenly gets emotional over the idea of being loved.
But there it is.
I’ve experienced moments of happiness before, obviously. I’ve had achievements, excitement, relationships, and experiences I wouldn’t trade for anything.
But there’s something different about feeling that you might actually have a place in someone else’s life.
That someone might choose you.
Not because you’re particularly successful, intelligent, useful, or interesting.
Just because they want you around.
I don’t think I’ve ever been comfortable with the idea that I might be enough for someone exactly as I am.
I’ve always felt like I had to become something more first.
And perhaps that’s what makes this feeling so unfamiliar.
Of course, another person cannot fix my life. I’ve learned that lesson already, and I don’t want to put that responsibility on anyone.
I still have my problems. Some of them are pretty fucking serious.
I still have things I need to change, mistakes I need to own, and parts of myself I’m not particularly proud of.
And there’s no guarantee any of this works out.
That’s the terrifying part about allowing yourself to hope. You’re also allowing yourself to be disappointed.
But I think I’d rather take that chance than spend the rest of my life protecting myself from the possibility of being hurt.
I’ve already spent enough time doing that.
Maybe I don’t need to fix everything first#
I’m 26 years old.
I have no idea where I’ll be living next year, what I’ll be doing for work, or what my life will look like.
A lot of the things I used to feel certain about aren’t so certain anymore.
And I wish I could say I’ve finally figured myself out, but that would be complete bullshit.
I’m still the same curious, impatient, occasionally self-destructive idiot who’s constantly looking for answers.
I still overthink. I still struggle. I still have days where I feel like I’m wasting my potential, and others where just getting through the day feels like enough.
But maybe I don’t have to solve every problem before I’m allowed to have something good.
Maybe I can be a work in progress and still deserve to be loved.
Maybe I can be uncertain about my future without assuming it’s going to be miserable.
And maybe, just maybe, there’s something waiting for me that I couldn’t have planned, calculated, or forced into existence.
I don’t want to pretend that everything is suddenly okay.
It isn’t.
There’s still a lot of pain. More than I’d like to admit.
But something I’ve almost forgotten how to feel has started coming back.
Hope.
Not the kind where you convince yourself everything is going to work out.
Just the quiet realization that it might.
And after everything that’s happened, that’s a pretty fucking big deal.
For the first time in a long time, I can imagine a life I don’t constantly feel the need to escape from.
I really hope I get to experience it.