Here’s my story. It’s not the beginning, nor is it everything, but it’s my story nonetheless.


I’m a Libra. I’m an INFJ-T. I’m 2w3. I don’t follow these labels religiously, but I do relate to some of what is written about these titles.

So what do these mean? It means that I’m probably more sensitive to emotions than other people. It means I’m a dreamer and I want to spend my life helping others. It means that I enjoy the arts and seeing the beauty in everything.

It also means I’m a perfectionist; I hate making mistakes so much and I hate feeling less than happy, which means I’m never satisfied with myself or my life.

I do have a logical voice in my head that tells me it’s impossible to be happy every single day. But most of the time, this voice fights a losing battle as my perfectionist voice is louder. And this is what I go through daily.


Now that I’ve gotten a little personal, I’ll go over over my current situation.

I won’t go into details, but if I thought I had sad days in the past, this is a whole other level.

I thought people sobbing for hours or crying themselves to sleep only happened in books and movies. I thought the inability to get out of bed due to sadness was just laziness. I thought looking at the world through sad eyes and feeling a heavy, sad weight on your shoulders was something that only lasted for a day or two. I never thought those kinds of things could happen to me…


I’ve always believed I was a pretty strong person; I don’t cry easily, I can hide my emotions, and I can fake a smile all day and night if I have to. Anything so people never see my more vulnerable side. For whatever reason, I’ve lived the majority of my life with walls around me and a mask on my face. And I’m sure we all have that to some extent.

I’ve also always prided myself on being able to move on and get over things quickly by being busy. I know that this isn’t the best way to deal with things, but it works for now.

But Chapter 2 happened and all the walls came crumbling down and the mask fell off.

I still wear that mask in public, but it doesn’t seem to fit anymore. I can see the cracks in it, but I don’t know if others do. The bubbly, happy girl I used to be has gone into hiding and I can’t find her. I ask myself, how do I find my way back to that girl? And I just don’t know.


If you’ve made it this far, this is where the shift begins. Day by day, the wounds of the past heal a little bit. Sometimes I feel like I’ve moved a millimeter, but it’s something. At least I’m trying.

But even more than that, my desire to be happy again is sometimes stronger than the sadness that would usually invite itself in without notice and overwhelm me.

I think the only thing keeping me alive sometimes is that it can’t always be like this. It has to end someday and things have to get better one day, right? So I spend every day holding onto that little piece of hope like someone holding onto the edge of a cliff for dear life, hoping that someday I’ll have the strength to pull myself back up again.

And here are some words that have been getting me through these solemn days and nights.





These are the voices that helped me instead of real-life voices. I’m not saying that no one helped me or that I have no friends. I have felt very alone and isolated, but I can’t blame that on others. I think I closed myself off from everyone because I couldn’t repair my walls and mask and I didn’t want anyone to see me like that.

In today’s world, society labels vulnerability and mental health problems with weakness, which is very sad because I’m sure there are so many people struggling with issues worse than mine.

My situation is also a private issue that I couldn’t talk about openly and I don’t think I ever will. Sometimes, there are things that can’t be shared, especially on the internet.

I do hope this post can help somebody, or at the very least, feel like they can relate to this. It doesn’t matter if people read this; I just wanted to write this and share it. So if you made it here, thank you for reading.



I promise, this isn’t the end of the story, for me or for you. Don’t let go just yet.


5 thoughts on “IT’S NOT THE END OF THE STORY

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