I created this world to feel some control (destroy it if I want)

While in the process of trying to understand myself and why I am like this, I figured I could use some lyrics from the greatest band in the world to assist me. I grew up as a major fan of Twenty-One Pilots, and while I won’t go into too much detail about them now because I am already writing a separate essay about them, I realized that I could use this to help try and explain where I am mentally right now.

As described in the chorus of their song ‘Bandito’, “I could take the high road, but I know that I’m going low”, and if that doesn’t perfectly describe my mental state right now, I don’t know what does. I’ve spent the past week or so feeling what cannot be explained as anything other than deeply depressed. As you can probably see from the recurring theme of literally every other post I have made on here, this isn’t really a new feeling, it’s just a new location and a new kind of isolation. I’m not unfamiliar with being alone, as a matter of fact, I kind of love it. It's comfortable. Warm. But I chose this for myself. I choose this actively. ‘I could take the high road’, I could choose differently, could reach out to others and go out like I have been. ‘But I know that I’m going low’, at the end of the day though, I know that I will always prefer to be alone, mostly because I am terrified of bringing the mood down or being unwanted in a public or private space. Being somewhere where you are unwanted is the single most isolating feeling in the world. Even just the thought of it is enough to send me into a full-blown panic attack.

I have gone my entire life feeling like I am out of place, like something is fundamentally incorrect with me and that must be why I can’t keep any friends long-term. Thinking that there must be a reason that when I make friends, I am always the one joining a group that has already been formed. I don’t create groups; I join pre-existing dynamics and try my hardest to act like I’ve always been there. But I haven’t. And if the choice came up, I would not be the first one. So instead, I come here. To my computer. To the thousands of words that rip through my head and scratch my throat until its bloody, begging to be spoken aloud and silenced only through the clicking of my keyboard and the sharp pain in my skin as I accidently squeeze my hands too hard. I go lower than I’ve ever gone and continue falling as the words flood from my fingertips. I put everything I have and everything I am onto this page, because what else is there for me to do? None of this has a logical explanation, the only one in my head is that I must be the problem. The reason for my own isolation. Is it self-inflicted, or is there truth behind these fears I’ve had since I was in elementary school?

No amount of reassurance can convince me that I am wanted. That I am a first choice in anything. And I know, I know that it doesn’t matter where I fit into the dynamic, as long as I am happy and we are having a good time, it shouldn’t matter. But it always does. It always has. I don’t meet people first. I am not the start of the group nor am I the center of it. I offer nothing extra to the dynamic and my silences are forgotten almost as much as the words I contribute. My body tires itself out before I can even get a word in, and my breath takes more effort than the sentences I rip from my lungs.

I wake up more tired each day. The lethargy burning my sinuses as the tear in my throat becomes a cavern with every gasp I take. The effort it takes to leave my room gets more and more dire, and fear takes over my body, paralyzing me before I can even sit up in bed. My. Body. Hurts. I feel like I’ve run a marathon and then got hit by a bus before I could make it to the finish line. I say again, as I say countless times: someone is messing with me. This has got to be some sort of sick joke at this point. I don’t want to be one to play the victim in a situation where nothing calls for it, where there are so clearly other lives that matter more than mine and are much more intense. So why does my brain make me so selfish and take up all of the pity without the desire to change anything about it?

I’m only writing so much at this point only so I don’t go completely insane. This is my only lifeline. I feel like I am losing my mind every day, and I have no idea what to do about it. I sit here, day after day, and I can literally feel my body deteriorating. And the worst part? It is fully preventable. I can feel myself start to isolate myself. I mean, I’m in Sweden. Fucking Sweden! I have never felt safer in my entire life and yet I’m stuck. I can barely leave my room, and I keep telling everyone that I’m fine and it’s fine, but the longer I go like this the harder it is to convince myself that I believe it. I was hoping, so bad, that I would come here and I could be someone new. That I could try and let go of the preconceived notions that everyone has about me and I have of myself to improve myself and make connections with people without the attachment that comes from an invisible string. But I can’t run from myself. I can’t escape this, whatever this is. And it is killing me before I even have the chance to do anything about it. I don’t want to make this someone else’s problem, but I just want someone else in my corner here. And that feels impossible. Selfish. A burden that I create because I cannot solve my own problems.

I know I love to say that each low I reach is the worst one that I’m in, but I feel like this one should take the cake. It is no longer a matter of whether or not I’ll get out of this feeling, it’s for how long I’ll be able to stay out of there. It makes me angry. Angry that I can’t just enjoy anything, no matter how incredible the situation is, because every part of me is too wound up to relax. Every part of me is prepared for the other shoe to drop. Not concerned with how, only concerned with when. I know this good feeling won’t last, and it’s only a matter of time before I feel even worse than I did when I was doing good. I am incapable of being kind to myself, and incapable of telling anyone how much I am truly struggling. I am so terrified that people will become too concerned if I tell them how I actually feel, and they won’t be able to help me because it will be clouded by the human need to fix what is broken instead of being there for them without solutions. I just want to be seen. Wholly and completely, without the threat of happiness that people love to deflect and bandage with. I have gone my entire life feeling like I’m in someone else’s shadow, like I am overlooked in everything that I do and everything that I am. It kills a small part inside of me the longer I think about it.

Each day that passes, the less I feel human. I beg for the day that I don’t feel like the earth has swallowed me into her snowy roots, that I will be able to breathe once again without the dirt entering my lungs and suffocating me before I get the chance to turn off my alarm. I have had a panic attack every single day for the past week. Because of course. I had one an hour ago. I couldn’t breathe and it was so bad that I actually made myself lightheated with how fast I was breathing. My lungs refused to work. Refused to let me calm down over nothing. Why would anything in my life work with me.

I have to call the airline to fix a flight that I booked for myself, and the idea of talking on the phone makes me want to die. I thought I was getting my period this week, because usually when I feel like I am going to put a bullet through my skull that normally means that I get my period the next day, which explains everything. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Which makes me more concerned, because that means that I feel bad for literally no reason. This is exaggerated for understanding purposes, but the point is concrete and still stands. TLDR is, I am not doing good. And this very well might be the only thing that I can count on to get my feelings out. I look into the mirror and barely recognize myself.  

I should probably reach out to someone, should probably tell literally any of my friends what is going on. But they didn’t come here to deal with that. They didn’t speak to me for the depth that inevitably comes with being my friend. They came to me with the promise of fun. The promise of casual, friendly lightness, not whatever the fuck this is. They don’t befriend me to become burdened. Dare I sound repetitive, but to repeat the mantra from earlier, “I could take the high road, but I know that I’m going low” well baby this is lower than we’ve ever gone before. As good old Markiplier says: this is what it means to go even further beyond. And further beyond we are certainly going. I don’t think I’ve ever been this far from the tunnel. The light at the end looks more like a faint flicker at this point.

I realized that in exactly three weeks from the day I’m writing this, February 24th, 2026, I will be 20 years old. I will never be a teenager again. I will never be able to say that I have accomplished something meaningful before I turn 20. I have done what feels like nothing, and it is no one’s fault but my own. No one is special when they’re 20. They are just another young adult that somehow got through the noise of the world for long enough to make some sort of impact. I will never be a teenager again, and I don’t have a single person to share this with. Nothing to open when I wake up. I know that’s a stupid, superficial thing, like I recognize that, but this is the first year ever that I have no plans and no one that knows about this. Birthdays have always been really special to me, the only day I care about as much as Christmas. And yes, I get that it’s pretty dumb to be excited about a birthday at this age, but it’s always been a day that’s just about me. A day that, I am allowed to be a little selfish and excited about it. At least I have this. Writing. A place to put my thoughts and talk to someone, even if it is just me reading it.

I know that the only thing I can control is the words that I put on this page. I can write them and edit them and even delete them as much as I want. Without guilt for how it affects someone else. Because it is purely cathartic at this point. I don’t expect anyone to read this and enjoy it or even take anything from it besides the fact that I am a deeply sad and troubled individual that complains about completely preventable first-world problems. I know that I would be annoyed with myself if I had to read this much of the same repetitive complaints. Like get over yourself. It isn’t that deep, which makes this so much worse. As much as I would love for someone to take something away from this, my only advice is to keep doing what you love. If I stop writing it will kill me, so the only thing I can do is continue with it. I can create what I want, but I can also destroy it (hi twenty-one pilots reference) and at this point it’s the only thing I can control, so mind as well do it until it kills me, or I take care of it myself. For the record and a quick PSA, I’m not suicidal. Like, as much as I talk about it, I’m not. It is just a great analogy to talk about my feelings, even though it will never be acted on. So don’t stress about me, just let me make my analogies in peace, and dream about the beauty that is macabre imagery. Edgar Allen Poe would be so proud.