Sometimes I feel stupid. Like I’m no good at anything.
I’ve lost interest in things I used to love — writing, thinking, chess. There was a time where I could feel when something I created was enough, but lately, I don’t trust that feeling anymore. I ask myself if this is depression. And if so… what’s the point of it?
It feels like depression exists only to drain me, limit me, convince me that I’m not who I once was. I doubt my voice, my thoughts, my creativity. Is my writing even worth reading anymore? Is it still as clever or thoughtful as it once was?
What’s made this season harder is this undercurrent of quiet, unresolved anger. I feel like something important was taken from me — maybe it was my peace, my trust, or just the illusion that I could depend on people who claimed they’d always be there. Add in loneliness and abandonment, and the anger only grows. Abandonment has taught me to not let people close because there’s a chance they’re not ment to stay, so I keep people at an arm’s length. I know it sounds like a cliché. But it’s also true.
Worse still, I seem to attract people who only want to take from me emotionally. They dump their baggage on me like I’m built to carry it, but they can’t even handle it when I hand them mine. People like Hallo.
Yes, Hallo — who once told me we could never be a thing because his friends liked me. As if he’s doing them a favor while also coming off as he’s the one who friend zoned me. Like he’s the one who told me no. Now he comes around like we’re friends, talking endlessly about a girl he’s “talking to,” telling me how she cried when he called it off. It sounded more like he wanted me to be impressed that someone was sad over him. But the way he tells it — as if he was the reason she was ever happy — had me rolling my eyes internally. You might’ve been there during happy moments, sure. But you weren’t the sole reason.
What irritated me most was how he talked nonstop for thirty minutes — I gave him my full attention. But as soon as I offered my thoughts, he picked up his phone and started texting. His excuse? A friend was in the hospital. And while I hope that’s not a lie, it felt convenient. I made a note right then: I won’t let people use or drain me like that again.
You don’t get to barge into my job, unload all your drama, ask for favors, and offer nothing in return. He asked for a Sprite “on the house,” and I gave him one. The drinks cost $6, but I showed love because I knew the loopholes in the system. Then, the one time I needed help — I was hungry, and asked him if he could help me get a discount (not free food) at the restaurant where he works — he suddenly had a hundred reasons why he couldn’t.
That’s not a friend. That’s someone who sees you as useful.
So the next time he called me I didn’t answer. And when he texted saying, “See how you’re not picking up? You say I only talk to you at work,” I replied, “Did you need something?”
He said he just wanted to talk. And I felt myself boiling, because why do you think I’m your emotional dumpster? You come around saying you don’t want me, but still touch my arm caressingly like you do. Call me like you want to form a connection but then say you’re too busy to text. Then you remind me you’re still into someone else. The nerve.
So I sent him: “Loll I’m not your therapist.”
And of course, he didn’t like that. Said it was harsh. Said “never mind.” But I felt… satisfied. Like I finally took back something I’ve been letting people borrow for too long — my energy.
And still, I know he might come back. For some reason, boys like when I’m mean to them.
There was another guy I met at Universal — handsome, smart, working on his master’s in business. He found me on Instagram (a little creepy, a little flattering), but once we started talking, I realized he wasn’t really interested in me. It was all about him. Where he’s from, what he’s doing, how proud he is of himself, which he has every right to be. But not one question about me. So I let it fizzle.
Then there was a guy in my communications class. Warm eyes. The kind that made me feel seen for the first time in a long time. But when I found out his age, everything changed. I think he felt the spark too. But now there’s a strange awkwardness between us. The age gap left more than a number — it left a gap in conversation, in shared space.
All of this — the burnout, the boys, the emotional freeloaders — it’s a lot. But what I’ve come to realize is:
I don’t have to deal with people the way I used to.
I don’t have to be the nice girl who listens to everyone’s problems while mine go unheard. I don’t have to accept breadcrumbs of affection from men who want the benefits of me without the burden of loving me. And I don’t have to dim my anger just to keep things polite.
No, I’m not the girl I used to be. But maybe that’s okay.
Maybe I’m becoming the woman who finally chooses herself.
Echo R.S 