Will I Be Sad Forever?

Hi Subfamzzz♡

I’ve been sitting on this toilet seat for almost thirty minutes now. Not really doing anything, not thinking anything, not even breathing properly because of this stupid nasal congestion. Time stretches endlessly in this small space, and I start to notice its features. The tiles are white with blue flowers, chipped at the corners from years of wear. The fluorescent light hits them in a way that makes the space feel smaller, like it is slowly closing in, pressing down on my chest, until I cannot tell where my body ends and the toilet begins.

I’ve been down with malaria for days now. Four, maybe five. My body aches, my skin burns in waves, my head feels heavy. But it’s not just the fever. It’s everything else. This weight of thoughts I can’t shake, this heaviness that seems to have no name, this kind of exhaustion that comes from living inside your own head and realizing no one else can carry it for you.

I keep telling myself I’ll be better. I always get better. That’s how it’s always been my whole life. Life throws something rough my way, and somehow I push through, dust myself off, and keep going. But sitting here, with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands, I wonder why it has to be such a grind every time.

I hate going to the hospital, the smell of antiseptic and the long waits in those plastic chairs. I hate taking drugs, the stupid bitter taste that lingers, or how they make me drowsy and disconnected from the world. But then, have I ever really liked anything? I don’t even like this life sometimes, the way it demands so much energy just to get through the day, the endless cycle of waking up, working, eating, sleeping, and hoping for a break that never quite arrives.

Now, I remember when I was younger, how being sick felt different. My mum would be right there, hovering in the kitchen, pulling leaves from the neighborhood or buying barks from the market to boil into something she swore would fix me up. She would stir it slowly, her hands steady and sure, and then bring it to me in a mug, watching as I sipped it down. She would ask me several times if I was okay: “Are you feeling better now? Does your head still hurt? Want some water?” Her voice was always soft, as if she could talk the fever right out of me.

And if it got bad, there were the doctor visits, my butt stinging from syringes full of whatever medicine they thought would help. It hurt, sure, but there was comfort in it, in knowing someone else was handling the worry, making the decisions.

Back then, being sick meant being taken care of, wrapped in a blanket of attention that made the world feel smaller and safer.

But things have changed now. Now I am older, and everything feels so different… somewhat lonely.

Is this how growing up always feels? Losing pieces of yourself you didn’t even know were yours to lose? It’s funny how I used to think growing up meant having all the answers. Like knowing who you were and where you were going. But here I am, staring at a wall, wondering if anyone else feels like they’re just winging it through life. If anyone else knows that silence in a room can be louder than the laughter of a crowd.

Lately, even writing on Substack has become a whole thing on its own. I sit down with good intentions, wanting to share something light or inspiring, but what comes out is always tinted with melancholy. Stories about lost connections, reflections on quiet regrets, pieces that dig into the parts of life that aren’t all sunshine. And I hate that, because it starts feeding into this overthinking loop in my head.. that do people see me as that person who’s never happy? The one who always dwells on the downside, like joy is some foreign concept I can’t grasp?

And that’s not the case at all. Because in real life, I’m the one cracking jokes at gatherings, planning spontaneous outings, making sure no one’s bored in the room. I laugh easily, find fun in small things, and people tell me I’m easy to be around. But when it’s just me, alone in the evening, the noise in my head gets too loud. Thoughts pile up and suddenly, that happy exterior feels like a mask. Maybe this is truly who I am, deep down… someone who carries this undercurrent of sadness, even when the surface looks calm. It’s confusing, this duality, like living in two worlds at once.

I told myself at the start of this year that things would be different. That I’d choose happiness no matter the cost… And for a while, it worked. But here I am again, phone on DND to block out the world, a headset clamped over my ears blasting sad songs that match the mood inside.

Why do I do that? I mean… turn to lyrics about heartbreak and longing when I’m already low, like maybe it’s a way to feel less alone, to hear someone else put words to the ache i feel. Like, if I relate to these artists pouring out their souls, my mind whispers that I’m not the only one who feels this sadness sometimes, even for no reason at all.

This sadness, It just comes like a fucking wave, unexpected and overwhelming, pulling me under for a bit before receding. One minute i’m fine, laughing with friends, and the next, I’m home alone, staring at the ceiling, wondering why the weight returned.

Will I be sad forever?

Will I be sad forever?

The question hangs here, unanswered.

Will I be sad forever?

Will I wake up one day and this feeling will just disappear, and I will suddenly be all better, back to the version of me who used to be so happy, without drifting back into this constant sadness?

I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe it is just a phase, even though it has been stretching for years now, refusing to pack up and leave.

I just wish someone would tell me straight, yes or no, so I could stop asking it: Will I be sad forever?

Thanks for reading ❤️