There’s no reason I should feel like this.

That’s the worst part.
My life isn’t falling apart.
It’s fine.
It’s good.
My girlfriend tells me she loves me and I believe her.
My friends invite me out and I say yes.
Sometimes, I even laugh.
And then, in the middle of the night or a Wednesday afternoon,
my body decides it’s time to collapse in on itself.

No warning.
Just a quiet shutting down,
like the lights in a store
right before closing.

I’ll be walking through a parking lot
and suddenly my chest forgets how to keep rhythm.
My heart races like it's being chased
but there’s nothing behind me—
just a car, a tree, a sky that doesn’t care.

Try explaining that to someone.
Try saying,
“No, I’m not sad.
I’m just... not here at the moment.”
Or,
“Yes, I love you.
I just also kind of want to disappear right now.”

Some nights, I lie in bed like it’s a battlefield.
It’s 1:03 a.m.
The ceiling fan spins like it’s counting down to something.
I try to breathe like the apps taught me.
In through the nose.
Hold.
Out through the mouth.
Hold.
But panic doesn’t care about wellness trends.
It grabs my ribs like a thief looking for something valuable
and finds only noise.

The worst part is the stillness after.
When my body finally unclenches
and I’m left staring into the blank of 1:58 a.m.
fully aware I’ll be useless tomorrow.
But more afraid of the idea
that this is just... how it is.

I’m not suicidal.
Not in the way people imagine.
I don’t want to die.
I just want to stop existing
for like a day.
Maybe three.
Just enough to sleep without dreaming,
to pause the timeline,
to not have to explain why I haven’t texted back
or why I skipped another thing I should’ve shown up for.

Motivation?
It’s not that I don’t want to do things.
It’s that I can’t.
Not metaphorically—literally.
Some days I sit at the edge of my bed
for an hour
trying to convince my legs
that standing isn’t a threat.
Trying to convince my brain
that brushing my teeth isn’t Everest.

People say,
“You just have to push through.”
As if I haven’t been pushing
every single ******* day
against a door that swings shut
every time I blink.

And yet—
Here I am.
Breathing.
Shaking.
Still here.

Not heroic.
Not inspirational.
Just... here.
And maybe that’s not a triumph,
but it’s what I must cling on to
as my only saving grace.