Loneliness

In the shadowed recesses of existence, where the faintest light barely penetrates, there resides a realm of unending torment. Each breath resonates as a whisper of agony, each heartbeat an inexorable reminder of the relentless affliction that courses through the veins. The body, once a vessel of life and vitality, now endures as a prison of suffering, where every movement is a harrowing struggle, and every moment a protracted battle.

In this desolate landscape, the soul longs for release, for the sweet embrace of oblivion. The promise of an end to the ceaseless torment, a final escape from the chains that bind, looms tantalizingly near. It is a seductive allure, a siren's song that beckons with the promise of peace and rest.

Among strangers, there is an echo of empathy, a fleeting sense of being heard. Yet, within the familiar, there is only silence, and the deafening absence of understanding. It is in this stark contrast that the loneliness festers, a deep-seated sense of worthlessness that gnaws at the spirit.

In the absence of solace, there is only the unyielding reality of existence. The human spirit, trapped within the confines of torment, fights against the tide of despair. Even in the depths of suffering, there exists a quiet resilience, a testament to the indomitable nature of the soul.

And so, with a resigned sigh, the journey continues, through the valleys of pain, ever onward, ever striving. For in the end, it is not the suffering that defines us, but the courage to face it, the strength to endure, and the hope that, one day, there will be peace.

I wrote this poem during a moment of emotional exhaustion—when I felt invisible in my pain. I was hurting, but the people around me just watched. Sharing this is part of my healing, and maybe it will help someone else feel less alone too.

And You Watch

by Maria Davis

I carry despair and pain,

Wasted energy—

And you watch.

I walk in anger and loneliness,

And you watch.

I move through the day,

Waiting to be rescued—

And still, you watch.

I search the waters,

Hoping they’ve gone down,

But find only the lies of life—

And you watch.

Always watching,

Waiting for my next move.

Even when I slip

Into a place beyond repair—

You watch.

#mental health #Healing #Depression #emotional pain

#Anxiety #invisibl illness #Loneliness #truama

The world used to be in color. Vibrant, rich hues painted every day — the cerulean sky, the emerald leaves, the fiery sunsets I’d chase with a camera in hand. Now, it’s mostly gray, washed out by a relentless, invisible fire. They call it CRPS, Complex Regional Pain Syndrome, but I call it the thief. It stole my life, my independence, and a piece of my soul I may never get back.

It started after a minor surgery. I brushed it off, chalked it up to normal post-op pain. Then the pain sharpened, twisting into something unrecognizable. It wasn’t just a hurt; it was a screaming inferno that refused to be extinguished. My skin became a live wire — every touch, every breeze, a jolt of agony. My hand, the one that used to deftly wield tools and sketch dreams, swelled and changed color — a monstrous parody of what it once was.

The doctors tried, but the glazed-over eyes, the hushed tones of “rare” and “complex” — they spoke volumes. It felt like I was speaking a foreign language, trying to describe a sunrise to someone who had only ever known perpetual night. How do you explain that your own body has turned against you — that the very nerves designed to protect you are now your torturers?

The hardest part, harder even than the torment itself, is the isolation. Friends, once so close, drifted away. Their initial sympathy gave way to awkward silences, then eventually, nothing at all. “You don’t look sick,” they’d say — a phrase that felt like a punch to the gut. How could I make them see the lightning bolts shooting through my veins, the icy grip that sometimes seizes my limbs, the constant tremor that makes holding a cup a Herculean task? I stopped trying to explain. It was easier to just retreat, to curl up in my own private hell where at least I didn’t have to witness their discomfort or their pity.

I used to be proud. Independent. Self-sufficient. The one everyone came to for help. Now, I’m the one who needs help to open a jar, to button a shirt, sometimes even to just stand. The humiliation is a constant companion, a burning shame that rivals the pain. Asking for help feels like tearing off a piece of my dignity, exposing a raw wound. Begging — even subtly — for understanding or patience is a soul-crushing exercise. I see the flicker of impatience in their eyes, the subtle shift in their posture, and I know they don’t get it. They can’t.

Sleep is a fleeting whisper, a brief reprieve before the flames rekindle. The nights are long and lonely, filled with the echo of my own cries and the terrifying realization that this might be my forever. There are moments — dark moments — when the sheer weight of it all threatens to crush me entirely. The relentless pain, the crushing loneliness, the constant battle to simply exist.

And sometimes, more than anything, I just want to close my eyes and dissolve into the quiet abyss.

Hi, my name is AnxiousKitty. I'm here because Im struggling with lack of family and friends. I'm struggling to overcome years of emotional abuse. And struggling with loneliness while navigating a divorce trauma attachment issues in a state far far away from family.#Anxiety #Depression #AutismSpectrumDisorder #PTSD #ADHD #OCD #Grief #EatingDisorder

I can’t remember the last time I made a post here. I’d been feeling better lately. But yesterday, I went to church, and suddenly, this wave of sadness and loneliness hit me again. I held it together for a while, but when I got home, I collapsed into bed and just cried. Then I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I felt a little lighter—but the weight in my chest is still unbearable.

Four months ago, something painful happened with a girl I liked. My feelings for her were genuine, but they weren’t returned. At least, I think so. I still don’t understand what went wrong. For a while, she seemed interested—she reached out, showed signs she cared. But then, suddenly, she started avoiding me. No explanation, no conversation. Just silence. And because of that, I can’t move on. My mind keeps racing, trying to figure out what happened. Maybe her parents forbade her from seeing me? Her father’s a priest, and her family is very religious—though we’ve never even met. Maybe she likes girls but is too afraid to admit it, even to herself. Maybe she’s seriously ill and doesn’t want to hurt anyone by getting close. I know these thoughts are probably irrational, but I can’t shake them. If she’d just said, “I’m sorry, but this isn’t right for me,” or “I don’t see a future with you,” — anything — I think I could’ve healed by now. But she left me hanging. I wish I could talk to her about it, but I can’t. She’s shy and reserved, and I don’t want to pressure her. Besides, we haven’t spoken in four months. We were never even close—not really friends, just… something vague.

Thanks for reading.

There was a lonely boy in high school. He wasn’t lonely because he couldn’t make friends—he was lonely because he knew no one would ever understand him. He knew he was alone in his world. He watched his peers revel in their youth while he gazed from the shadows, a hollow smile on his lips. He longed to be like them, envied them deeply, but could never bridge the chasm between them. Throughout his youth, he suffered: no sweetheart, no friends—just gnawing solitude. He ached for rescue from the darkness consuming his heart. He craved someone to look into his eyes and whisper, “You’re not alone,” to grasp his hand and lead him toward light. But no one came. The boy remained alone, weeping in his darkness. And when the darkness had devoured his heart, he ended his life—and with it, his suffering
#Depression

Hi, my name is szahara. I'm here because I was married to & raised two kids with a man who has narcissistic personality disorder. I’m trying to navigate having to share custody with a man who was/is abusive to me & my kids. I’m trying to make sense out of how the court system in this country is not adept to protecting battered women & their children. I’m trying to heal & salvage what remains of my life that he so skillfully & strategically destroyed. I’m struggling to find the courage to move forward & build a new life for myself after being completely isolated & controlled for so long. I wish I had known about narcissistic personality disorder & cluster B disorders decades earlier & am frustrated when I hear that my only recourse is to tip-toe around the predator. This generational trauma is not his fault, but this doesn’t mean I’m the one who has to pretend any of this is normal & have to lie to my kids about who their father really is. It feels like people are more concerned with protecting him, while I am invalidated & forced to live with the fallout he caused. Its lonely & confusing.

#MightyTogether

By Rebekah Smith

I broke the chain—and it broke me open.

I left the place I was raised, the generational patterns I inherited, the expectations that never fit quite right. I longed for something different, something freer. I wanted space to breathe, to grow, to become. And I found it, in a way, out here in California. I built a life with more beauty, more choice, more authenticity than I was ever allowed back home. But I also found something else: guilt, grief, and a kind of loneliness that only comes when the price of freedom is disconnection.

When you’re the one who leaves, who changes, who says, This ends with me, you don’t just separate from dysfunction—you separate from the people still in it. The people you love.

I wonder sometimes if my family thinks I outgrew them. Maybe I did. Maybe I had to. But it’s painful to feel so far away from the people whose blood runs through me. To want connection with the same people who made me feel like I had to choose between belonging and being well.

Mental illness runs through my family like an underground river—visible only when the ground gives way. I’m not the only one struggling, but I’ve become the most obvious. Maybe because I talk about it. Maybe because I’ve tried to heal out loud. And in doing so, I’ve been made to feel like the sick one, the dramatic one, the problem—when all I’ve ever tried to be is the brave one.

I don’t know how to hold both truths: that I love my mother and that I cannot understand her silence after I told her I didn’t want to live anymore. I don’t believe she doesn’t care. But what else can I believe when my pain is met with silence?

She raised me to be better—or maybe I made myself better in spite of what I was given. I didn’t stay quiet about injustice. I didn’t excuse harmful men. I didn’t raise children in the same cycles. I didn’t find comfort in religion, and I didn’t vote the way she did. But I did find a deep love for humanity—especially for the misfits, the outsiders, the ones like me.

Maybe she thinks I’m judging her. Maybe I am. Maybe I just can’t understand how you can vote for someone who reminds you of your abuser. Maybe I’m tired of pretending that “family” should mean staying silent about harm.

Sometimes I think about the life I left behind—the mobile home, the quiet, the simplicity. I used to scoff at it, tell myself I’d never end up “knocked up or knocked out.” But I get it now. I get the appeal of a small life, a predictable life. Some days, the life I’ve built out here feels overwhelming. And sometimes, I wonder if I would’ve cracked sooner had I stayed.

If I’d had children, maybe this ache would make more sense. Maybe I’d see my own childhood through the lens of what I could give to someone else. Maybe I’d feel less like a daughter still waiting to be loved.

But I’m here. In therapy. Doing the work. Trying to give myself the love I needed then. Trying to parent the child inside me with softness, with care.

Life is hard—but it’s also fast. And so, I endure. I love myself. I value the peace and honesty I’ve fought for. I’ve built a life that reflects who I really am. And even with all the heartache, I’d do it again. I’d do it all over.

Because this ride—this messy, complicated, painful, beautiful ride—has been mine.