Welcome to my little corner of the internet. I’m just someone trying to make sense of things — someone who thinks too much i feels like, feels too deeply i guess, and probably plays too many games just to escape for a while. I grew up keeping everything inside, quietly drowning beneath the surface. Lately… I’ve been trying to be honest. Atleast for myself. Even if it’s just through words on a screen, that yes probably no one will ever read, but the point itself is for myself not others
I often dream of a quiet life — maybe a small cubicle with a city view, sunlight spilling across my desk, little figures lined up next to a Blåhaj or two. I like cute things: games, cute music, pastel colors. Things that make the world feel a little less cruel than it is.
Life’s been… messy. Strange jobs, unfair pay, health scares, and too many nights spent staring at the ceiling. But I’m still here. Somehow... Maybe this site is just my quiet way of saying: “I exist. I’m trying. I want something of my own, even if it’s small.” If you’re reading this — thanks. I hope you’re doing okay.
I was born into a strict religious household. There were no doors in the bedroom — not even now. Privacy didn’t exist. What I remember most from growing up is the fear — the violence. My parents beat me senseless, said it was what God wanted. That they were only obeying His orders.
They told me over and over again: if a child sins at eight, a parent has every right to strike them down in God’s name. Can you imagine hearing that — believing it? Every bruise became part of my daily life. I begged for forgiveness. I begged for it to stop. I begged God as if it was my fault. But no one ever came to help.
It's hard. I've never felt truly loved anywhere. Sometimes I wonder if I was ever meant to be born at all. Why do you hit me just because I made a mistake? I'm still a child. Is it really my fault that I ended up here? I begged—over and over. But when my parents wanted to punish me, they did terrible things: they held me underwater, pinched me until I bruised, yanked my hair so hard that strands came out. It hurts. It always hurts.
The pain wasn't just physical—it stayed in my heart, quiet but feels so heavy, like a secret no one wanted to hear. I learned how to cry without sound. I learned how to smile when I was breaking. Every time I tried to be good, to be small, to be invisible, it still wasn't enough. There was always something wrong with me in their eyes.
I used to think maybe, just maybe, if I disappeared, they might finally notice me—miss me, even. But deep down I knew... they wouldn’t. I was a burden, a mistake they never wanted. And now, even when the house is silent, their voices echo in my head.
“You’re worthless. Why dont you like your friend”
“Always causing trouble. Can you just shut up, you talk a lot like a girl”
“Why can’t you just be normal?, stop crying and be a man”
I carry those words like scars. Not all bruises fade, and not all wounds bleed."
School wasn’t an escape… it was just another battlefield. Another place where I had to wear armor I never asked for. They didn’t just ignore me...they erased me. Gave me names that weren’t mine, names laced with cruelty, and laughed like it was a game. No one ever called me by my real name. No one wanted me on their team, in their group, near their desk.
And when the teacher forced someone to sit with me, that someone made sure I knew how much they hated it. The way they looked at me, their gaze,, i can see it clearly until this day,,,,it wasn’t just discomfort. It was disgust. Pure, unfiltered hatred in a child’s face. I still remember it. I see it when I close my eyes. Their sneers, their whispers behind my back, their laughter when I fell or cried.
But I never hurt them. I never mocked them. I never did anything to deserve it. I was quiet. I was kind. I just want to be friend, I just wanted to be included. To be seen. To be treated like I mattered. Why do people do this, i know i am ugly you dont need to laugh at it, i am born like this
And still, they hated me.
Why?
Why did you hate me?
It’s a question I’ve carried for so long it’s become part of me. Etched into the silence of every lonely lunch, every walk home with my head down, every birthday no one remembered. I asked it in my mind a thousand times,but I never got an answer. And maybe I never will.
Those six years — middle school and high school — they were hell. I didn’t have friends. I was pushed around, torn down, ignored. Physically, emotionally — it broke me. I asked God again. I asked why. But silence was all I ever got.
Every day felt like a fight for survival. Before I even stepped into the classroom, my heart would race like I was running from something. My hands trembled, i am soaked with panic. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to hit myself, i want to hurt myself as if i was deserve it. anything to make it stop. Anything to quiet the storm in my head.
Sometimes, I wished I could just disappear. Just vanish into nothing. Not out of anger, but exhaustion. I was tired of being afraid. Tired of pretending I was okay when I wasn’t. The pain was unbearable, and worse,there was no one to tell. No one who would really listen. No one would ever help. No one would care
I tried asking for help once. Just once. I built up every bit of courage I had left and whispered that I wasn’t okay. But they laughed, or brushed it off like I was being dramatic. Said things like, “You’re too sensitive,” or “You’ll be fine.” They didn’t understand that I was already drowning. That I was holding my breath every single day, hoping not to break in front of them.
So I stopped asking. I stopped hoping. And in the quiet moments, late at night when the house was still and I was finally alone—I would stare at the ceiling and wonder: Would it hurt less if I wasn’t here anymore? Would the world be lighter without me in it?
I didn’t want to die you know. Die is hurt. I cant stand getting hurt. I just didn’t want to keep living like this.
Kindness was rare. Almost non-existent. Everyone who got close to me wanted something — and when I had nothing left to give, they turned cold. Talked behind my back. Left me even more alone.
It’s hard… living like this.
And then, one day in high school, I met him. Just one person. He sat next to me, every day, even when I tried to push him away. I showed him all the reasons not to stay. I wanted him to leave because that’s what people always did. But he didn’t.
But I never said thank you. I still don’t know how. It’s like the words get stuck in my throat, too fragile to speak. I carry the gratitude like a secret, tucked away with all the other things I never learned how to say.
Sometimes I wish I could ask him, just once
“Why? Why did you stay? Why did you choose to befriend someone like me?”
I still think about him. Not every day, but often enough. In the quiet moments. When the world slows down and I’m left alone with my memories.
I wonder if he ever knew. If he ever realized he was the only light in a place that felt like endless dusk. He didn’t save me in some dramatic, storybook way. He didn’t make speeches or grand gestures. He just sat beside me. Listened. Shared half his lunch. We even share our interest, he like some korean song and i like japanese song, one day we just split a headset, he listen to the left side and i listen to the right side.
He made the unbearable feel survivable. And he’ll never know that. Because I never told him.
Time moved on, like it always does. We drifted. Life pulled us in different directions. No falling out. No last goodbye.
I wonder if he ever knew what he saved me from. How his presence, his patience....stitched something broken inside me. How just knowing someone chose to stay made the weight of everything else just a little more bearable.
Sometimes I draft messages him I’ll never send.
Sometimes I imagine bumping into him somewhere and chat for a bit.
Sometimes I just hope he’s okay. That life’s been kind to him.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe some people enter your story not to stay forever, but just long enough to remind you that you’re not invisible. That you’re still worth something, its what i think
College wasn’t as cruel. Things got quieter. I met a professor — a PhD, kind-hearted and warm. He graduated from Buffalo University somewhere from US, I think. He was different. Gentle. He asked how I was doing, like he genuinely wanted to know. He reminded me not everyone is harsh.
I still don’t know what I’m supposed to write here. I like soft, cute things — always have. Ever since I was little. But people told me that was wrong. That boys aren’t supposed to like those things. I believed them for a long time. Thought I was broken.
I told myself it was just a phase. That one day I’d “grow out of it.” That I’d be fixed. Normal.
But… no. I’m 24 now. And I still love those things — the pastel colors, the warmth, the softness. And I won’t lie about it anymore. I like them. And I don’t want anyone to tell me what I should or shouldn’t be.
But now, at 24, I’ve been diagnosed with something, final stage disease. I might not survive. It still feels strange saying it out loud. Heavy. Final. Like a door quietly closing behind me.
I try not to cry. I really do. I just shrug and say, “It is what it is,” like that makes it easier to carry. Like pretending I’m okay will somehow make it true. But nothing feels okay anymore.
Weekly hospital visits. Blood tests. Injections with thick, burning needles that bruise and bleed. My body’s starting to feel less like mine and more like something broken being poked and prodded. It hurts. All of it hurts. I cant stand it anymore longer
And I don’t feel sane anymore. Not really. I want to scream. I want to tear something apart, to lose my mind completely....because maybe then the pain would finally make sense. Maybe then, people would see it.
I think about ending it. A lot more than I’d like to admit. But I never do it. I never even try. There’s this voice in my head that mocks me, like, “You’re scared of needles, remember? So how the hell would you ever go through with suicide, are you stupid?”
And the worst part? That voice is right.
It’s cruel, but it’s right. I flinch at needle. I panic at blood draws. I cry in silence when no one’s looking.
Still... some days, I wish I had the courage. Not because I want to die, but because I just want all of this to stop. The pain. The noise. The pretending. The waiting.
I don’t know how much longer I can hold myself together.
But for some reason, I still do.
And I don’t even know why and for how long.
Every week, another injection. Another wound. Another piece of me chipped away under fluorescent lights and cold hands. Sometimes it feels like I’m less of a person now, and more of a patient. A file. A number on a chart. Someone to be monitored, poked, scheduled.
I don’t know how much time I have left. No one does, not really. They speak in estimates and stages, in careful tones and quiet sighs. But I’ve stopped counting the weeks. The days blur together anyway. Some are full of pain. Others are just... numb. Empty. Like I’m floating above my own body, watching it go through the motions.
But if this really is the ending....if I’m reaching the last chapters of my story-then I don’t want to waste them hiding. I don’t want to wear masks anymore, or swallow my truth to make others comfortable.
I want to spend whatever time I have left being honest. Being real. Being me.
I want to say the things I never had the courage to say. I want to scream when it hurts, and laugh when something is still beautiful. I want to cry without apologizing. I want to reach out, even if my hands are shaking. I want to tell him thank you, even if he never understands why it matters so much.
I want to love..even if it’s quiet. Even if it’s from a distance. I want to write down everything I couldn’t speak. I want to be remembered not for being strong, or brave, or inspiring...but for being human. Just human.
I’ve spent so much of my life wishing I was someone else, somewhere else, anyone but me. I wasted years asking why I was born, why I was hurt, why I was hated. But maybe now… maybe the question isn’t why. Maybe it’s what now?
What do I do with what remains?
I think… I try. I try to forgive what broke me.
I try to make peace with the scars.
I try to let go of the weight I was never meant to carry..
And I try, most of all, to stay..
Because even in the pain, there’s something quietly precious about being alive—about the chance to say I’m here… even just for a little while.
— Aoife