The Weight of Silence

Loose Thoughts

I've always been a good listener. It feels like people open up to me, sharing their deepest burdens. Their problems flow onto me like ink on paper – deep, intense, leaving a lasting mark. And me? I don't mind. Listening allows my own worries to drift away, as if, for a moment, they cease to exist.

But on evenings like this, I ask myself: if I carry the weight of others, is there anyone who would willingly bear mine? Maybe such a person exists, but I won't ask. I won't do that to them – they don't deserve it. My troubles shouldn't become their burden.

I carried so much resentment toward myself. I felt unfulfilled, as if my life had frozen at the moment of my final exams and refused to move forward. I was consumed by shame and embarrassment – as if I had failed not just others but, most of all, myself. That's when I realized I didn't want to be that person anymore. The sadness I carried pierced through me, overwhelming and relentless. I felt it deeply, painfully, like an open wound.

I decided to change. For myself, but also for others – so that they could feel better around me. It was a long journey: learning discipline, stepping out of my comfort zone over and over again. Each step was a challenge, but I made it. I broke free.

Now, people compliment my energy, my enthusiasm. I often hear how much they enjoy being around me, how inspiring I am. And yet, the sadness always comes back – like a boomerang. I feel it again, and I ask myself: will I ever meet the expectations? But whose expectations? My parents'? My siblings'? My friends'? Or are they my own?

My battle was solitary. I felt misunderstood. "There's nothing wrong with you, stop imagining things" – that's what I heard almost every time I tried to open up. And yet, every day, I woke up with new pain, new fears. Minutes after waking, I would search for explanations, trying to figure out what might be wrong. By evening, I was ready to visit a doctor just to make sure everything was okay – even though I knew no one would take me seriously.

Nights were the worst. Sleepless, filled with stress and a whirlwind of thoughts. Around me, I only heard reproaches: "You're exaggerating. You're driving us crazy." Eventually, I stopped talking. I kept it all to myself, suffering in silence until I learned to ignore the pain.

Then something shifted. The pain began to fade, and I – with determination bordering on desperation – started doing everything I once avoided. Things that made me cry inside, but outwardly, I wore a perfectly rehearsed smile. And it worked. They believed it.

But that pain... it always comes back. Quieter, perhaps more distant, but always there, reminding me that what I carry inside may never completely disappear.