I thought I finally graduated from university with my computer science degree 3 months ago, after one hell of a traumatic experience with teamwork.
Until I found out I failed a course — for the first time in my whole life. Somehow, I managed to fail my last course, in my last semester, in my senior year. I still believe it meant something more than my academic incompetence.
A friend once told me she thought I intentionally hid things from her instead of being completely open and transparent, so she started believing that perhaps this was all I had to offer, and I had nothing to hide. Until she realized that there’s way more to me than what meets the eye — all eyes, including mine. I realized then that I’m even more shortsighted than my prescription says.
I wholeheartedly didn’t want to write this. Every pumping vein in my heart was insistent on not pumping blood to my hands for that very reason — to not sit up, grab my laptop, and write this.
I have my reasons for why I’m physically and mentally resisting living and being lived through. I just don’t see a fucking point in anything anymore. If I can describe it in the best way possible, I’d say my heart is in a complete state of rage and disappointment at the deteriorating state of my creations. My sabotage is manifested in my resistance.
I spend the whole day forcing myself back to sleep. I stopped seeing my friends since graduation — I’m starting to forget their voices. Writing no longer helps. Being the girl who is heavily medicated no longer helps. And I’m angry. If there’s a state beyond anger, then that’s what I’m in now.
I’m mad at the unfairness I’ve been exposed to lately. And you can shame me for feeling like a victim when I’m clearly not... seriously, fuck you, move on. Everyone I know is out of uni now, excited and hopeful for what their new lives will bring. Everyone I know is posting on LinkedIn about landing jobs, moving cities, unlocking new chapters.
And I’m here.
I’m here, sleeping half the day. The rest I spend forcing myself to believe there’s a point in going to practice. I end up going because I paid, that’s all. I play flag football, and I drop the ball 90% of the time.
I drop the ball in 90% of my life.
And I’m tired. I’m tired and I don’t want this anymore. I feel like my therapist isn’t seeing eye to eye with me. She’s pessimistic enough to believe it’s just a matter of “pushing through it.” I don’t want to push through anymore. It’s obvious I don’t fit.
I met my ex when he was my age now. I met him right after he finished his bachelor’s degree at the Sorbonne. He was backpacking around Africa.
And I was here.
And I’m still here.
I don’t want to live anymore — and I mean that in the least threatening way. It’s more of a “giving up” way.
I’m tired, and I think I've tried hard enough. Or at least as much as I could afford.
I want to wrap up the untouched sketchbooks Mama bought me, the unopened acrylic paints I begged her to get me, the unfinished wall painting, the massive “How to Crack Your Tech Interview” book that I only use as a laptop stand. Wrap them all and give them to someone else. Someone who would make better use of them than me.
But just know, I had them in the first place because I was genuinely trying.
I paid for that sports subscription because I was genuinely trying.
I went out of my comfort zone and hung out with that one friend because I was genuinely trying.
I pushed myself into a new coding project because I was genuinely trying.
I’m writing this because this is my last trial, my last act of resistance against my sabotage.
A streak of disappointments has been generously coming my way for a while now. I no longer have the ability to look past it or even look back at the past I once had.
I surrender.
And for that, the latter wins.
This is all I can afford.
I’m sorry.