How and why do I feel so miserable? My period app says I’m due to start bleeding in about four days, so that might be why, but I just feel off! I’m unhappy, unsatisfied, annoyed, and restless. I wish I had more in me—I wish I was successful, well-off, and talented. I feel wasted, rotten, and unremarkably unimportant.
The weather has been so hot too, and it makes me want to claw my skin off. I sweat so easily; it’s so gross and unladylike…
I used to not care about gender roles. I’ve always prided myself on being a liberal child, even in the conservative household I grew up in. From a very young age, I remember challenging my parents’ beliefs, proclaiming my judgment-free convictions. I didn’t mind looking like a boy. I didn’t mind letting my leg and armpit hair grow out. I was more independent—and less fat.
Every time I write the word fat or even mention my weight, it feels like I’ve detonated a bomb. The awkward bomb, like casually dropping a slur in the middle of a chill conversation and watching everyone go silent. That’s how it feels to admit, even to myself: I’m fat. Or I feel fat. Or I’ve gotten fat.
When I let myself say it, it’s like everyone in my head stops what they’re doing, goes silent, and stares at me. I can’t seem to admit it—not fully. I’ve buried it so deep, avoided it so vehemently, that even when I try to address it, there’s this bleak, unnerving silence. If I admit it, then it becomes true.
But it’s already true!
I miss having my Instagram account. I miss the attention and validation it brought me. Like a past relationship, I know I’m forgetting the bad parts—the fear of posting something my parents might scrutinise, the panic over comments about suggestive angles. Growing up felt like jail. I shouldn’t have had to feel that way as a child. That child shouldn’t have grown older only to make fear its home.
There were other bad parts, too. Worrying about posts that didn’t get enough likes, stories with too few views, follower counts going down, or someone else’s account growing faster. There was always something to keep me up at night.
And yet, all I can think about now is how good I felt about myself when I had aasthameow.
I want to unfollow Melbourne influencers who make me feel awful about myself. They have platforms, opportunities—access to things I wish I could experience. But I don’t want to be like that. I know they’ve worked hard, and they’re reaping the rewards. Still, it stings to click on a story and see someone my age, in my industry, a friend of a friend, being invited to concerts with after-party entries while I stand in line for eight hours, wait another four for the performance, and leave without the signed poster all VIP ticket holders were promised—because customs.
I feel hateful. Furious. And I don’t want to write anymore.
But where do I go? What do I do with all of this? It’s lodged inside me, spreading like a stain. If I walk away from typing this, the thoughts won’t stop. And if I don’t document my misery, what’s it worth?
Two things are on a loop in my mind:
1. Diane Nguyen Good Damage monologue from BoJack Horseman: “Because if I don’t, that means all the damage I got isn’t good damage, it’s just damage. I’ve got nothing out if it, and all those years I was miserable for nothing.”
2. A quote I read on someone’s Instagram story: “Art isn’t good or bad; it’s just profitable or not.”
I’m clinging to that second one, hoping it helps my mental health because right now, it’s not looking great.
Not everything has to be tied together, you know? I could be happy with myself without feeling like it would deteriorate my work. Self-worth and productivity don’t have to hold hands. I could be free from my demons. But I’m competitive—and my own worst enemy. I wouldn’t even let anyone else win that title.
Btw I started a Substack. So if you like to read, there's material there too.
