Because unravelling solo is getting old.
Dude.
I’ve been told—with a completely straight face and concern in their voice, mind you—
that maybe I’d feel better if I stopped listening to “that kind of music.”
You know. Distortion. Despair. Emotional ruin dressed up as art.
The kind we live off.
Apparently, the music is the problem.
Not the depression. Not the limerence.
Not the anxiety. Not the RSD.
Not the fact that I tend to trauma bond with anything that moves and made eye contact for a moment too long.
Nope.
Just—too much sad music.
Their solution?
“Try something happier.”
What the fuck kind of suggestion is that?
Like sure, let me put on some cheerful music about brunch and watch all my pain evaporate.
You really think it’s the music, Karen?
You think I crawl into bed at 4PM on a Tuesday because I listened to the wrong guitar tone?
Or might it—just maybe—be fucking life?
Life, that doesn’t give a single shit that my emotions aren’t regulated.
That I’m currently doing the emotional labour of four people, without applause, without backup, without even a snack.
That I’m so hypervigilant I could ghostwrite everyone’s inner monologue just by walking into a room.
And when I’m alone?
Oh, that’s when it gets really fun.
That’s when the brain thrives.
Let’s replay the last message I got five days ago.
Line by line.
Let’s figure out what I could’ve said differently.
Zoom in on that one typo like it’s a crime scene.
Run a full forensic audit on every pause, every emoji, every silence.
But sure.
It’s the music.
Of course it is.
Not the trauma.
Not the exhaustion.
Not the emotional weight of caring this much in a world that answers with a like and scrolls past.
No.
Definitely just the sad guitar.
But hey—
Dude.
I need to tell you something.
I think it’s really time you showed up.
I miss you.
Because maybe—maybe—if you were already here,
if we were texting at 2AM, trading memes and trauma playlists,
if I had someone like you to spiral with,
it wouldn’t feel so terminal all the time.
Still Missing: One Person Who Speaks My Exact Emotional Dialect
It’s not that I don’t have friends.
I do. Really good ones.
People I love. People who love me back.
This isn’t about them.
It’s not about a lack of support.
It’s about how deeply I’m wired for one specific frequency of connection.
The kind that holds steady when I'm slipping.
The kind that texts back before I even finish saying, “I’m not okay.”
The kind that knows how to roast my emotional nonsense just enough to shut it up—but lovingly, like a sibling with impeccable comedic timing and no sense of boundaries.
I keep hoping you exist.
Because the truth is—I don’t want to sit in this shit alone anymore.
I need a co-pilot.
A co-chaotic.
I want someone who says:
“Babe. This isn’t limerence. You’ve just read too much self-help crap again. This is you trying to heal through doom metal and impulsive metaphors. Go drink some water. And no, you are not sending that voice message. Drop the phone.”
I need someone who doesn’t flinch when I reopen an already buried conversation with,
“Okay but let’s just say hypothetically—”,
but raises an eyebrow and replies:
“FFS, give me ten and chill the wine.”
I need your presence.
A voice that mocks.
A heart that stays—even when my brain is three tabs deep into obsessive analysis of a message sent three days ago.
I want the person who yells “THIS IS NOT A VIBE” when the stories I repost start getting too desperate again.
Someone who casually texts “Hey, you alive?”
Then follows up with a meme so aggressively specific it makes me feel both seen—and personally attacked.
Instagram Is Slowly Killing Me
I hate it.
The way I keep pouring—and people keep scrolling.
The way the things I write—my actual feelings, stitched into metaphors and thrown into the void—just vanish.
Like they never mattered.
Like I never said them at all.
But here’s the thing:
I’m not being vulnerable for show.
I’m not curating a meltdown for engagement.
I write because I have to.
Because if I don’t, those feelings will choke me.
They’ll claw their way up my throat, scratch at my insides,
and turn into the kind of pressure you only know if you’ve ever sat still and felt your own sadness pulse under your skin.
This isn’t content.
It’s coping.
This isn’t a brand.
It’s bleeding—in metaphors and humour, because otherwise it’s too much to carry.
I put things into words because it’s the only way I can stand upright some days.
And I post them because maybe—maybe—someone out there will read them and say: “Same.”
But most of the time?
They look.
They move on.
They say nothing.
And it guts me.
Because I wasn’t performing.
I was trying not to drown.
When you speak in full paragraphs and feel in full soundtracks?
Silence isn’t neutral.
It’s violence.
But what am I supposed to do?
Turn it off?
Shut it down?
Pretend I don’t care?
I do care.
I care so fucking much I’ve turned it into a practice.
And if I’d stopped looking, I wouldn’t have found the people I do have in my life.
The ones who did show up.
Who took time.
Who said, “Same.”
It took effort.
And pain.
And way too many emotionally reckless Instagram stories.
But the work was worth it.
So I keep doing it.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it makes me feel invisible.
I keep trying.
Because one day—
you might see it.
You might find me.
And this time?
You’ll say something back.
When We Finally Find Each Other
It’ll be something small.
Something stupid.
A meme. A comment.
Something that might very well start with “Okay, don’t judge me, BUT—”
And I’ll know.
Immediately.
Because you’ll get it.
You’ll get me.
All of it.
The grief. The overthinking. The weight.
And I’ll get you right back.
I’ll be the person who says “log off” when you’re stalking someone’s SoundCloud at 3AM.
I’ll tell you to eat before crying.
I’ll send the playlist that wrecks you.
We’ll spiral in sync.
Roast our brains into submission.
Cry and laugh in the same breath.
Know when to say “same” and when to say “no, babe, that’s trauma talking.”
It won’t fix life.
But it’ll make it bearable.
And when we finally find each other?
We’re gonna be a fucking problem.
In the best, most unhinged, beautifully devastating way.
Don’t take too long, okay?
Yours in doom, distortion, and delusion,
Izzy