I’m exhausted.

I’m trying to work, learn something new, research for projects. I’ve been keeping myself busy.

But I think I’m losing it.

I kept saying “This is for the greater good”, I don’t think it means anything to my body.

This week I spent most of my free time lying on the bed. Doing nothing. It was a white ceiling with a running fan. The fan was the only thing ran in my room this week.

I think I’m relapsing.

I didn’t know why. I was motivated last week. What is stopping me?

I was reminded of myself 7 years ago.

Still a running fan, but the ceiling was pink. My bed was a bamboo mattress instead of cotton. I faced a curtain to the second-floor balcony of a home in Da Nang.

I was lying just like this week. I couldn’t get up. And I didn’t feel the need to get up.

I couldn’t believe it. I lived for 7 years lying down, like a plant. My only job was studying well, everything else? It didn’t matter.

Everything felt like a chore.

It was difficult to get out of bed, to brush your teeth, to get in the shower, to fold clothes, to clean up the room, to go outside, to hang out with friends, or to be happy.

It shouldn’t have been like this. I knew it wasn’t right, bus was there another option?

Everything felt like a performance.

I performed many acts. I acted like I enjoyed an activity. I acted like I loved doing something I had no interest in. I acted like I focused on studying. I acted like I sympathized with someone. I acted like I knew what I was doing.

I, in fact, did not know what I was doing. Because I felt nothing.

I could not feel anything.

I saw the point in having a career, in raising a family, in finding my major, in studying and applying to a university. I just couldn’t seem to care.

There was one night where I got yelled at. I couldn’t remember why, but it was different. I just remember how I couldn’t sleep.

I lied there, for hours, with the sound of slumber to the back of my pillow. I couldn’t feel anything, but my eyes still poured. I took a scissors in my hand, made a puncture. I felt something.

It bled. It hurt. But I felt something.

I cried. I was too much of a coward. I couldn’t do it the second time. So I wondered what would happen if I would lay here and stop breathing.

I tried to choke myself. No, this body was stopping me. I needed something else.

I used a piece of cloth. I pushed and pulled. I felt something. It was unpleasant. It was the mucus in my nose, my tightness of my throat, and my blurry eyes.

But I was a coward. It wasn’t long until I dropped the cloth.

I couldn’t even harm myself. So pathetic.

Defeated, my only choice was to close my eyes.

To the sound of the rooster I woke up. It was 4 AM. The sun was blue, or was it the sky?

I couldn’t sleep anymore, so I went into the bathroom.

Two dark eyebags, a bruised neck, a hand with hardened clumps of blood.

I looked in the mirror. I didn’t know who I was looking at. I knew it was me. But at the same time, it was not me.

I didn’t know who was standing there. I just knew I didn’t want to be that.

I tried to find myself. But the tool to see oneself was the only thing I couldn’t find myself in.

I wanted to feel something. But I’m too much of a coward to commit a crime, or to kill myself.

I needed to do better. But no one told me how to, for I couldn’t help myself.

I should give something. But I have nothing.

Quickly morning came. The harsh summer was showing.

The beach was blue. So was I.

What would it take for me to find out who I am?

How could I start to learn how to feel anything?

When would be the time I begin to become better?

Why couldn’t I do anything?

I was losing it.

I was exhausted.

Still am.

“Dok tone veče, vraćam isti san
Preda mnom svetac drži crni lan
U more, sure boje, zove me taj glas
Nemam ja sreće, nemam spas

Niko neće džanum, niko neće moju bol
Da ga suze ganu, da mu predam se
Niko neće džanum, niko neće moju bol
Na mom jastuku, bez mira, sanjam zle

Ni do zadnjeg leta, ni do kraja sveta
Sudbina je moja kleta
Ova duša nema dom, ova duša nema ton
Crne zore sveće gore, moje more.”

(“As the night falls, I return to the same dream again.
A saint standing in front of me is holding a black linen.
That voice is calling me into the sea.
I have no luck, there’s no salvation for me.

Nobody wants my darling, nobody wants my pain.
To be moved by tears, for me to surrender.
Nobody wants my darling, nobody wants my pain.
On my pillow, I have no peace, I have bad dreams.

Not until the last summer, not until the end of the world, my fate is cursed.
This soul has no home, this soul has no tone,
black downs are burning candles, my sea.”)

– Teya Dora, Džanum, 2023.