This Is Not How I Wanted Things To Go

I just turned eighteen.

I just turned eighteen.

It was supposed to be a milestone, a turning point where things would finally start to get better. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could be okay—that I could finally find happiness in doing the things that once brought me joy. But it felt like the whole universe was against me, like it was determined to crush any hope I had left.

Every time I found a sliver of something to hold onto, to feel alive, the universe would tear it away, leaving me back in the darkness. I found myself in the same situation I had been in when I was twelve—a child with the weight of the world on my shoulders, trapped in my own mind, locked down, chained up by thoughts that I couldn't escape.

These thoughts had been with me for years. They had become a part of me, a shadow that followed me everywhere. I wanted to die. I wanted to kill myself. The thought had lingered in my mind since I was twelve, a constant whisper that grew louder with each passing year. And now, as an adult, that thought had never left me. It was there, persistent and unyielding, gnawing away at whatever was left of my sanity.

I harmed myself—a lot of times. I stabbed, I cut, I swallowed things, all in the desperate hope that it would finally end. I wanted the pain to stop, the torment to cease. But every time I tried to end it, I would wake up again, staring at that same sterile white ceiling, listening to the relentless beeping of the machines that kept me tethered to this world.

It was an unending cycle, a loop I couldn't break free from. Each time I woke up, I was filled with the same crushing despair, the same overwhelming sense of failure.

When would I ever have the courage to take a rest? To sleep? To slip away into a deep, dreamless sleep where thoughts and pain couldn't reach me?

I wanted to be free.

Free from the thoughts that poisoned my mind, from the pain that gnawed at my soul. I wanted to sleep—truly sleep—in a way that nothing could harm me, where I could finally find peace. But peace was elusive, a distant dream that seemed further away with each passing day.

So here I was, at eighteen, the same as I had been at twelve.

Trapped.

Hopeless.

Desperate.

The world continued to move on without me, indifferent to the suffering that consumed me. And I was left wondering if I would ever find the courage to take that final step—to rest, to sleep, to escape this endless cycle once and for all.

This is not how I wanted things to go.

When I was eight, I had dreams. I thought that by the time I turned eighteen, I would be happy and free. I imagined a future where I'd be living a life full of joy, where the world would be mine to explore and conquer. I believed that growing up would mean leaving behind the fears and worries that plagued me as a child.

But I was wrong.

I was never right.

Eighteen was supposed to be the start of everything good, the age when the world would open up to me and I'd finally find the happiness I longed for. But instead, it became a cruel reminder of how far from those dreams I had fallen. The freedom I had envisioned turned into a cage, the happiness I had hoped for was replaced by an overwhelming sadness that I couldn't shake.

The optimism of my childhood felt like a distant memory, something that belonged to someone else entirely. The bright future I once dreamed of seemed like a cruel joke now, a fantasy that had no place in the reality I was living. Instead of finding freedom, I felt more trapped than ever, weighed down by the same thoughts and fears that had haunted me for years.