November 7, 2025
The morning began not with sunlight or the shrill of an alarm, but with dizzinessa strange, swirling fog that wrapped around my head like a thick, invisible veil. I opened my eyes, or at least I thought I did, but the world didn't feel solid. It wobbled. Everything seemed slightly off-kilter, as if I were watching my life through a warped lens. I didn't know why. Maybe it was the pills that refused to work despite the ritual of swallowing eleven of them each day. Maybe it was the sleepless night before, spent staring at modded game screens and crunching on midnight snacks, trying to outrun the thoughts that always catch up by dawn. Or maybe it was just another ripple from the storm that's been living inside me for longer than I care to remember.
The word "unreal" kept coming to mind. I know it's not quite right in grammar"unrealistic" is what people usually saybut "unreal" felt truer. Like I wasn't really in my body. Like the walls, the floor, even my own hands were part of some fragile simulation. This feelingthis detachmentis familiar. It's the world pressing in while I float just outside it, watching myself move through motions I don't quite control. I dragged myself through the morning routine anyway: water bottle pressed to my forehead, half a lunch packed (because I rarely finish a full one), and the ever-present weight of being a Class Representative on my shoulderseven on days when I can barely hold myself up.
Classes passed like scenes in a dream I hadn't signed up for. Professors spoke, I nodded, maybe even answered a question or two. But none of it stuck. My thoughts were elsewheresomewhere between the ache in my bones and the silence between heartbeats. I've gotten good at pretending. Good at smiling when I'm crumbling. Good at saying "I'm fine" so convincingly that even I almost believe it sometimes.
Then came the evening.
I found myself sitting on the stone steps outside the college building, the sky painted in soft purples and oranges. Beside me sat a close friendsomeone rare, someone safe. We didn't plan it. We just ended up there, like two leaves carried by the same breeze. And then, without warning, the dam broke.
We started with memessilly, absurd things that made us laugh in that exhausted, healing way only real friends understand. But slowly, carefully, the conversation deepened. From memes to business ideas, from business to fears, from fears to the raw, unfiltered truth of who we really are beneath the roles we play. I told them everything: the dizziness, the pills that don't work, the nights I cry silently into my pillow, the guilt of feeling like a failure even when I show up, the crushing weight of schizophrenia that colors every moment like static on a screen. And they listenednot with pity, but with presence. Then they shared their own storms, their own hidden battles. For a while, we weren't students or responsibilities or diagnoses. We were just two humans, sitting on cold steps, stitching our wounds with words.
It was, without exaggeration, an evening about Life and Its Hardships. Not in a dramatic way, but in the quiet, honest way that only happens when masks are finally dropped. There was no fixing, no grand advicejust witnessing. And in that witnessing, something shifted. The unreality of the day didn't vanish, but it softened. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel alone inside my own mind.
Of course, the day had to end. It always does. The sun dipped below the horizon, the campus lights flickered on, and the world kept turning as if none of it mattered. And maybe, in the grand scheme, it doesn't. But to me? It mattered deeply.
I looked at my friend and thought, This is why I stay. Not because life is kindbecause it often isn'tbut because there are still moments like this. Moments where truth is met with kindness, where vulnerability isn't punished but held gently. Moments that remind me that connection is real, even when everything else feels like a dream.
I won't pretend I'm okay. Some days, like today, I'm not. But I'm here. And I'm trying. And I want to thank my friendsnot just the one on the steps, but all of youwho see me even when I try to disappear. You anchor me to this world when it feels too heavy or too unreal to bear.
So no, don't worryI'm not going anywhere. Not yet. Because as long as there are evenings like this, as long as there is someone willing to sit with me in the quiet ache of being human, there is still something worth holding onto.
And maybe, just maybe, that's enough for now.
If you're reading this and feeling the same dizziness, the same unreality, the same exhaustionplease know your life matters. Reach out. Speak up. Even if it's just one sentence to one person. You deserve to be heard. You deserve to be here.
"Where there is life, there is hope."
And as long as I'm breathing, I choose to believe thateven on the days I can't feel it.
Content Warning: This piece contains reflections on emotional distress, dissociation, and thoughts related to hopelessness.