This post contains candid reflections on mental health, spirituality, and self-discovery/self-criticism. It’s deeply personal and may not resonate with everyone.

I’m sad, and I don’t know why. I forgot to take my meds for the past few days, but I took them as soon as I woke up today. I went to bed at 9 p.m. yesterday and woke up at 10 a.m. I overheard my landlord talking to my roommates, and the thought of him potentially needing to enter my space made me clean my depression room. I did not need him to see my mess. After that, I went back to bed for a while before eventually changing, putting on makeup, and driving to the library. Now, here I am, writing at 1:30 p.m.

Writing makes me feel productive, but I can’t shake the thought that I could be doing something more worthwhile. I should be studying for my anatomy test tomorrow—or researching spirituality. But the truth is, spirituality scares me.

I have heard horror stories about what happens when someone dives too deep into it. The worry of not being grounded prevents me from truly submerging myself in spirituality. I dabble in the occult occasionally, but I often worry I’m doing something wrong. Maybe it’s rebellion; I was raised in a very Christian household, and my mom was into the occult when she was my age. She later turned to Christianity, but I can’t help but wonder: Am I continuing something she left behind? Is this my destiny? I’ve always been drawn to magic and the occult. Was that fascination the result of “demons” or negative spirits? I don’t know, and thinking too deeply about it makes me want to curl into a ball.

What if I’m doing this life all wrong? Spirituality is also about benefiting the greater cause of humanity, the collective if you will. I want to contribute and connect to something bigger than myself—to help others and to benefit humanity. But I’m not connected to people at all. Is that my own doing? More than likely. I’m terrified of connection. The people I connect with most easily are often the ones I find annoying. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to be myself around them. I don’t care if they like me. Ironically, they usually end up liking me, which feels almost disappointing. People tend to like genuineness.

I shy away from people I admire. When they talk to me, I stutter, shut down, and withdraw into myself. My thoughts spiral: They know I’m weird. They’re noticing everything I say. What if I mess up? I want to leave, please, earth swallow me. My personality disappears, buried under the weight of my self-consciousness. I space out, unable to form a proper response. My words shrink to whispers or one-word answers that feel inadequate.

My anxiety overwhelms me. My stomach drops, and my hands start to shake. I avert my eyes and my chest tightens. My throat closes up, and I find it hard to breathe. I remember being 14, sitting in a classroom when I realized I couldn’t breathe. I panicked and ran out, convinced I was dying. My teacher chased after me, trying to understand what happened. He wanted to hug me, but I tensed up. Sensing my discomfort, he gave me the space I needed. It’s been five years since I’ve bolted like that, but I’ve still had moments where I’ve rushed to the bathroom, desperate to catch my breath and regain composure before facing society again.

Over time, I’ve learned to manage my stress, but there’s still so much I don’t understand about myself. I’m naturally quiet, and loud, boisterous people seem drawn to me. I give them space to be themselves, even if I find them overwhelming or irritating. But, in truth, I envy their ability to be so unapologetically loud, to speak freely without overthinking.

The people I call my friends now? I didn’t like most of them at first. In truth, that’s my way of protecting myself. If we stop being friends, I can remind myself that I didn’t like them anyway, sparing myself the grief of losing someone I deeply cared for. I won’t have to grieve as desperately as I would if I admitted that I enjoyed their presence beyond what I will admit. But that isn’t healthy, is it? Friends come and go, and I’ve never been good at maintaining the friendships I have. I tell myself I don’t care, but the truth is, I care desperately. I crave love and affection—platonic or otherwise. I just don’t know how to seek it or hold onto it.

When I meet someone I’d like to be friends with, my insecurities get in the way. I don’t push myself anymore. That hesitation will be my undoing. I feel deeply, but my insecurities keep me trapped in a loop I don’t know how to break. I really do miss the friends I’ve had, especially the ones I claimed I found annoying. Maybe I did find them annoying, sometimes, but I also knew they were cool. If they saw something in me worth befriending, then surely they had good in them too. Be free and annoying. I wish I was confident enough to be myself, even if I was annoying even to myself.

I’ve tried to fix this about myself, but maybe I never tried hard enough.

Have you felt like this before? Do you have any advice?