I just finished the first chapter and immediately decided to start the second. I need to manage to record as many thoughts as possible before my roommate comes back — I don't want to disturb him.
Surprisingly: after the first chapter the noise in my head quieted down a bit. I even felt a slight relaxation. But still, something is wrong with me. A couple of seconds ago I understood what I wanted to say, the thoughts were there — and now they're gone.
Four days ago I shaved all my hair off. It was medium length, about 20–25 centimeters. I had deliberately grown it out, wanted to see myself with long hair. But in recent weeks it started to irritate me. Overall, the entire year of 2025 passed in stress, sometimes severe. In recent months my hair started falling out a lot — possibly also because of that.
In recent weeks it simply bothered me: too long to not get in my eyes, but not long enough to tie into a ponytail. For several days I thought about going to a barbershop and getting a short haircut, but I ran out of money. I didn't want to ask my parents — they already have a hard situation.
This hatred toward my own hair kept growing. And four days ago, around nine in the evening, the thought came: why not just shave it all off? The last time I was bald was when I was about five years old, maybe even earlier. I sat and thought for a long time. And then I just took the clippers, went into the shower and shaved everything — the hair I had been growing for half a year.
I knew it was already falling out anyway, that if I shaved it all now, I'd have to grow it back for almost another year because my hair grows slowly. But in that moment I didn't care anymore. I just removed it all.
I didn't tell anyone anything. Shaved, took a shower, took a photo and posted a story on Instagram visible only to close friends. My older brother saw it — the best older brother in the world. He always supports, always asks me to tell him if I'm having difficulties. But I don't want to tell him. My older sister saw it too — she's married, has a child. She also always worries about me, always tells me to write if things are hard. But I don't want to. That's just the kind of person I am.
Five minutes later my parents called me on video. Dad jokingly asked: "What happened, are you depressed?" — and laughed. Honestly, in that moment I felt better. I replied that I just got curious what I'd look like bald, and changed the subject. We talked about small things. They said again that they would support me if there were difficulties. And I said that everything was great with me, everything under control.
After the conversation I really felt better — the hair no longer irritated me. It felt like my head became freer. I thought: "That's it, together with the hair I threw away those sufferings too. I'll live on."
And the next day I simply didn't go to classes. I didn't want to see anyone.
Then I skipped another day, and another one. In the end, it seems my condition has become even worse now. Before, when I lived with my parents, they didn't let me overload myself. I almost never did truly hard work. After moving I tried to work to support myself, but because of not knowing the language I could only find black-market jobs. They were very hard. I'm small in height and light in weight myself, but I still kept working. And when winter came, even that work disappeared.
Honestly, in the first months after moving I even liked it here — there was some kind of euphoria. Back then I didn't notice what was happening to me. Now I understand that it all accumulated day by day, every week, every month — and brought me to the state I'm in now. And even realizing this, I continue to hate myself.
Maybe it's because I grew up in an atmosphere where "men have to be men." Although my father and the whole family tried all their lives to instill in me that weakness is normal, that I'm not obligated to fit stereotypes. They tried. But I still grew up in that environment, lived there for eighteen years, and those attitudes stayed inside me. I understand that these are just stereotypes, but I can't get rid of them — like an arrow stuck in my chest.
While one part of me suffers, the other part hates it, despises it, considers it weak and says that I made all this up. Which of these sides is right? It seems to me, as always, the truth is somewhere in the middle.
Once I heard the phrase: "Stress arises when you don't keep under control what you can control." Sounds like truth. I didn't keep under control what I could. I made too many mistakes. Yes, mistakes are part of life, but still. Sometimes I wish I could go back to childhood and live everything over again, without making them.
Since childhood I considered myself smarter than the average person in my country. Others said so, my family said so, and I proved it with actions. I had chances to get into a prestigious university, win a grant, receive a scholarship. I could have gone to a European country, like many capable guys. But I rushed and made yet another — and this time very big — wrong decision. And now I have to deal with the consequences.
Today a friend invited me to his place to prepare for exams. At first I thought it was a good idea: if I stay in the room, I definitely won't do anything. I agreed, but then wrote that I couldn't come because I wanted to sleep. This is one of the closest people to me in this country, but I still don't want to communicate with him. I don't want to communicate with anyone at all right now.
As I already said, since childhood I was asocial, and in recent months it has become even stronger. It gets to the point where I can't calmly cook in the shared kitchen in the dormitory. First I check if anyone is there. If there is — I wait until they leave, because I don't want anyone to talk to me. I don't want to be seen. Because of this, a couple of times I simply didn't eat the whole day.
I understand how I reached this state. And it feels like I know how to fix it, but time after time I keep running away. Again and again I lose to myself. I dream of a beautiful life: living in a good country, among beautiful nature, having enough money, having a wife next to me who loves and supports me.
But the problem is that last year I thought I would get rich by eighteen. Two years ago — by seventeen. Three years ago — by sixteen. And now three years have flown by. That also weighs on me. Will I be able to achieve the life I want? I understand that desire alone is not enough — you need to act. I want to act, but I don't act. And I can't explain it. Too complicated feeling.
February 1, 2026. 21:25. That's enough for today.