I've come to a very important conclusion.
My brain is broken. Not permanently, hopefully.
But definitely running on questionable software.
Because apparently, for the past year, I've been using my brain like a computer with 127 tabs open, six applications running in the background, seventeen pop-up windows, and absolutely no idea where the music is coming from.
And instead of closing some tabs… I just opened more.
Brilliant. 😂
One tab is : “What happened to my marriage?”
Another : “What the hell is he thinking?”
Another : “What am I going to do with my life?”
Another : “Get a job overseas.”
Another : “Why haven't you applied yet?”
Another : “You should probably fix your finances.”
Another : “Remember that AI video you wanted to make?”
Another : “WHERE DID YOU SAVE THE DAMN DRAFTS?”
And then there's the emotional tab.
That one has approximately 3,000 sub-tabs.
Do I still love him? Am I over him?
Do I miss him? Do I miss who I thought he was?
Do I miss the life I thought I would have?
Could things have been different? Could things ever be different?
Should I move on? Can I trust love again?
Will I ever find home? Will I ever be happy?
WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?
It's exhausting. And the worst part? I don't even know which tab started it.
I just know that somewhere along the way, my brain became a 24-hour call center for problems that don't have immediate answers.
And apparently, I'm the only employee.
No lunch break. No benefits. No overtime pay.
Just anxiety. 😂
Sometimes I wake up and immediately start thinking. Before coffee.
That's how I know things have gone too far.
Who thinks before coffee? That's not healthy.
There should be laws.
And maybe that's why I need to write all of this down.
Because I can't keep storing everything in my head.
My brain is full. Storage capacity: 99.9%.
Warning: emotional files may be corrupted.
Would you like to delete something?
Yes.
Which file? All of them.
Are you sure? NO.
See? Even the system doesn't know what the hell it's doing. 😂
So maybe writing is my temporary storage.
A place where I can dump everything.
The memories. The anger. The heartbreak. The stupid hope.
The fear. The loneliness. The embarrassment.
The things I don't want to admit out loud.
The things I don't understand.
The things I probably shouldn't overthink but absolutely will.
Because that's what I've been doing for the past year.
Thinking. And thinking. And thinking.
Until thinking became its own full-time job.
Too bad it doesn't pay. I'd be rich. 😂
But underneath all the sarcasm, there is something I'm finally admitting.
I don't think I've been okay. I've been functioning.
There's a difference. I've been getting through the days.
I've been doing what I absolutely had to do.
I've been surviving. But I haven't really been living.
And maybe I've been avoiding writing because writing makes things real.
As long as everything stays inside my head, it's just noise.
Messy noise. But once I write it down, I have to look at it.
And maybe I'm not ready to look at everything yet.
But I think I'm more afraid of what happens if I don't.
Because how am I supposed to climb out of this black hole if I refuse to look at what pulled me into it?
How am I supposed to rebuild my life if I keep pretending nothing happened?
How am I supposed to move forward while dragging an entire year's worth of emotions behind me?
I can't.
Something has to come out. So maybe this blog is going to get messy.
Maybe there will be posts where I sound angry.
Posts where I sound sad. Posts where I sound hopeful.
Posts where I contradict myself five times in the same paragraph.
That's probably going to happen.
Consider it a feature. Not a bug. 😂
I don't promise wisdom. I don't promise closure.
I don't promise that every post will end with some inspirational quote about butterflies and new beginnings.
Some days the butterfly is going to be exhausted and lying face-down on the floor.
And that's okay.
Maybe healing isn't always beautiful.
Maybe sometimes it's just finally admitting: “I don't know what I'm feeling.”
And that's where I am.
I don't know. I don't know what I feel about him anymore.
I don't know what I feel about my marriage.
I don't know what I want from love.
I don't know exactly where my life is going.
I don't know how long rebuilding will take.
I don't know whether I'll become the person I used to be.
Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll become someone else.
Maybe someone stronger. Maybe someone wiser.
Maybe someone who finally knows when to close a tab.
God, I hope so. Because this browser is one notification away from exploding. 😂
So I'm going to write.
I'm going to empty this head one thought at a time.
Maybe I'll cry. Maybe I'll laugh. Maybe I'll cringe at something I wrote six months from now.
Probably.
Future Dika can deal with that. She's got enough problems already.
But maybe, somewhere between all the messy posts and unfinished thoughts, I'll find my way back. Back to myself. Back to my life.
Back to the person I was before everything became so complicated.
Or maybe I'll discover that I'm not supposed to go back.
Maybe I'm supposed to build someone new.
Either way…
I need to start.
Because this brain can't keep running like this. It needs a cleanup.
A reboot. Possibly professional technical support. 😂
Until then, I'll write. One tab at a time. One memory at a time.
One ugly truth at a time. And maybe eventually…
I'll finally hear the music again.
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