Sadness within me

In times of uncertainty, what name shall I give to this life I lead? Who am I, and what is this existence I inhabit? Sometimes, I find myself unsure of how to even feel sad—how to give shape to this nebulous ache. There is a haunting sense of incompleteness, as though I’m perpetually suspended in the middle of everything, unable to grasp either end.
I’m cold—inside and out. My feet, for instance, are colder than a brick wall. More than ever, my reflection feels foreign, darker somehow. For the first time in a long time, I see myself as a lonely white figure, adrift in a space that feels grey. Not entirely dark, not fully light, but trapped somewhere in between. The girl I see is neither in the glow of clarity nor the refuge of shadow. She exists in the void between, and I don’t know how to name or unravel the feelings that bind her there.
Have you ever experienced flashbacks? They often feel more vivid, more consuming than the moments they revisit. I’m drowning in flashbacks, trying to piece together fragments of what happened, desperate for meaning. Sometimes, the puzzle aligns, and everything clicks. Other times, it’s just chaos. I feel less like myself and more like someone carrying the echoes of PTSD—a stranger to my own soul.
Something heavy sits lodged in both my mind and heart. It’s as if I can neither speak it nor cry it out, neither swallow it nor scream it away. It’s an unbearable weight I’m forced to carry, a scar that simultaneously defines and tortures me. This anguish has become a constant companion, etching itself into my being.
Today, I must confront this misery. My hand trembles as I write these words, and my tears linger at the edge of release, afraid to fall. I’m terrified that if I start crying, I won’t know how to stop.
I feel as though I must prepare my grave before I dare to truly live, for the fear of dying unseen, unknown, presses heavily upon me. And so, I am left with this simple, crushing truth:
I am sad.