The Story of My Life

Why?

After everything fell apart, I started feeling like I was carrying a weight too heavy for me to hold. The pain, the questions, the emptiness – it was all too much. I could barely sleep, and when I did, I'd wake up with that same hollow ache in my chest. I knew I couldn't keep going like this, pretending I was okay when every day felt harder than the last. So eventually, I decided to try something I'd never thought I'd need: therapy. Walking into that first session, I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know if talking would help, or if anyone could really understand what I was feeling. But somehow, sitting there with someone who listened without judging, without rushing to fix things, gave me a strange kind of relief. I could finally say out loud all the things I had kept buried – the hurt, the anger, the questions that had no answers. For the first time, I didn't have to hide my pain or pretend to be strong. I could just be... me.
As the sessions went on, I began to understand myself a little better. I talked about my father, about how much it hurt that he had left, and how it felt like he'd abandoned me, too. I shared the memories I missed, the anger I felt for him not even trying to stay, and the confusion of not understanding why our family had to break apart. And in that safe space, I was allowed to feel all of it – the sadness, the anger, even the guilt I carried around, wondering if there was something I could have done to keep him close.
Therapy didn't take the pain away, but it helped me see that I wasn't alone in carrying it. It gave me tools to start dealing with everything that felt too big for me. Slowly, I learned to breathe again, to find small moments of peace, to start healing from everything I had been through. It's a journey I'm still on, but with each step, I feel a little stronger, a little more like I might someday be okay.
And even though I'm still learning to live with the hurt, therapy has shown me that I don't have to carry it all by myself. For the first time, I feel like I'm learning who I am beyond the pain, beyond the loss, and I'm finding a new way forward, one day at a time. Therapy was supposed to help, but no one – not even a therapist – could truly take away what I was feeling. The emptiness, the weight of everything that had happened, it was still there, like a shadow I couldn't escape. I tried to keep going, to hold myself together, but there were days when I couldn't even help myself. I felt trapped in my own mind, sinking deeper into thoughts I couldn't share, and I wondered if I'd ever feel okay again. People around me started to notice that I was changing. They'd make comments, whisper to each other, and some of them didn't hold back. They called me names, labeled me as "depressed," like it was something I'd chosen to be. They even threw around words that hurt more than I could ever explain – saying I was "a pathetic, depressed loser" who had "no reason" to feel this way. But they didn't know. They didn't understand that they were part of the reason I felt this way, that their words only pushed me further down. And then, there was my father. A part of me thought that, somehow, I'd learn to live with his absence, that one day it wouldn't hurt so much. But I was wrong. Instead of getting better, everything just kept getting harder. Each day, it felt like I was carrying a heavier weight, struggling more and more to find a way to be okay without him. I tried to tell myself that it would get easier with time, that I'd get used to the empty space he'd left, but that day never came. Life felt like an endless uphill climb, and each step was harder than the last. I kept telling myself that things would get better, that one day I'd wake up and feel normal again. I thought that, at the very least, I'd have my mother's support, that she would understand what I was going through. But even that began to slip away. Our relationship, once so close, started to crack under the weight of everything that had happened. It was as if the more I struggled, the more distance grew between us. I wanted to talk to her, to tell her how much I was hurting. But every time I tried, it felt like she couldn't really see what was going on inside me. She wanted me to just "move on," to "be strong," and I felt like she couldn't understand how impossible that felt. She would try to help, but it was like she didn't know how – and over time, it felt like she stopped trying to understand altogether. Our conversations became shorter, colder. I'd see the frustration in her eyes when I couldn't just be okay. And slowly, I stopped trying to explain. I started holding everything inside, building walls because it felt like even she couldn't see what I was going through. I began feeling like a stranger in my own home, like the one person I thought I could lean on was slipping away, too. I asked myself why it had come to this. Why couldn't I talk to my own mother anymore? Why did it feel like the more I needed her, the more distant we became? I had lost my father, and now I was losing the closeness I once had with my mom. It felt like every part of my world was crumbling, and I didn't know if there was anything left for me to hold onto. I was lost. Completely, utterly lost. These feelings, this pain, this emptiness – it had become too much to carry. I didn't know who I was anymore. I couldn't recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror. I wasn't the person I used to be. The confidence, the kindness, the strength – they all seemed so far away now. All I could feel was this heavy weight pressing down on me, this darkness that refused to let go.
Who was I? Was I just the girl who had been abandoned by her father? The one who couldn't seem to fix her broken family? The one who felt invisible and alone, even when surrounded by people? I didn't know who I was anymore, and it terrified me. I felt like I had become nothing more than my pain, like the sadness was all that remained of me. It was as if the rest of me had been swallowed up, and I couldn't find a way back.
The more I tried to fight the feelings, the harder it became. I didn't have answers, and I didn't know where to turn anymore. I couldn't keep pretending I was okay, but I also didn't know how to let it out. I wanted someone to see me, to understand, but it felt like I was just drifting further and further away from everything and everyone I once knew.
It felt like I was fading, slipping into a version of myself I didn't even recognize. And as I sank deeper into this confusion, I couldn't help but ask: Who am I anymore? Why do I deserve this? Why does it have to feel so heavy? Every day, I ask myself these questions, but the answers never come. It's like a constant ache, a weight that sits on my chest, and I don't know how to make it go away. I don't understand why I'm carrying this pain, why everything feels so impossible. Why does it feel like my life is one endless struggle?
Why is he like this to me? Why did my father leave, and why did he stop trying to be part of my life? I keep thinking about all the times we had – the moments that seemed like they would last forever – and now all I have are memories of what once was. It's as if the person I loved, the person I needed, vanished into thin air. I don't know why he turned away, why I couldn't be enough for him to stay, to fight for me.
And then there's my mother. Why is she like this to me now? Why do I feel this distance between us, like we're strangers in our own home? I try to reach out, but it feels like she doesn't see me anymore. Her love, her understanding, it's like it's slipping away, and I don't know how to stop it. Why can't she understand? Why do I feel like I'm carrying this burden alone?
These questions keep swirling in my mind, and each time I try to find an answer, I feel more lost. I just want to understand why things turned out this way, why everything I once knew has crumbled. Why do I feel so broken? Why does everything hurt so much?