I’m Not Alive For Myself: I Never Got To Live, I Only Survive

I wish someone had told me how hard life truly is. I wish I knew, before this brutal act that we call birth, that I would spend way too many nights wondering if this is my end.

I’m sitting here writing and thinking: how much suffering can a human being endure before turning bitter? How many fights will someone like me have to face before finally giving up?

And most importantly, was I actually meant to be alive?

I really thought and believed this year would be something beautiful, but it has just been disappointment, tragedies, and immense, constant sadness getting more intense each day. I found myself feeling more alone than ever this week, and I can’t believe that I’m going to say this, but I found myself dreaming about being gone forever because the pain was just too much.

If I’m being honest, it is still too much for my soul right now.

These days, I find myself going a lot by the sea, trying to figure out why it seems like life loves to throw bad things at me. I feel like my life has always been about surviving instead of actually living it. Between physical and mental abuse, treasons, rejections because of blood, negligence, bullying, and SA, it made me wonder what life could throw at me next.

For some reason, I don’t even feel legitimized to complain or even cry about this thing that I’m supposed to call life. Sitting on a bench by the sea at 1 a.m. made me look at the stars and feel like I’m not allowed to just fall apart, because we live in a world where there are so many horrible things happening.

And I don’t want to be the kind of person to complain, but as the oldest, I had to take care of things I never should have had to. Now, it seems like by doing something good, I am being somehow punished.

My parents never took their responsibilities; they were more obsessed with fighting, abusing each other, and getting back together again and again. Their children need them, but they are not here.

But I’m here.

I’m here taking care of everything, sacrificing my dreams for their children, who—it seems—do not appreciate at all what I’m doing for them. I have to be a father and mother all at the time because it is expected of me, but I need to also remember that I am their child when it is convenient for them to feel some kind of false respect.

The pressure is just overwhelming, and they don’t care. Why would they care when they are never here and they know that the oldest will take care of everything?

Dad is not here anymore; he is living carelessly with his bottles and drunk friends. Mom is not there; she’s living her new love story with a man, without a care in the world. And I am here in this house, being abused and not feeling safe.

Sitting on that bench made me realize that I am not even alive for myself, if I’m being honest. It is not that I don’t love myself, I promise that I do love myself deeply because I believe that I’m trying my best to have a good heart, or at least I hope so. But if I’m honest, I’m still alive because I know it would destroy the lives of the people that still care about me, and I can’t do that to them; it would be cruel of me.

And in a way, I always had this feeling that I need to do something beautiful for the world. There’s so much pain, and I know I can create a good world filled with smiling children and men and women who can feel safe. I know that I can also help animals feel safe in a world that targets them.

I may sound ridiculous, but I know that I can bring something never seen in this world—a good world. I feel like I have this immense responsibility for the 8 billion people and the animals. I know that I may sound crazy, weird, and ridiculous—everything in between—but I can feel it.

In a way, it is such a sad way to live a life, but if I have to be here, I might as well give my heart. But in the back of my mind, I can’t help but think that maybe ending it all would be my ultimate act of self-love. Because why would I want to keep living a life that seems to punish me for just existing?

I can’t believe it; here I am, feeling that one tear getting away from my right eye while writing to you. It has been a lot of unexpected crying this week. I’m so sorry.

To continue, where was I?

While sitting on that bench with no shoes on, because I had no choice but to sleep outside because I was not feeling safe at home, all I could think about was: will I finally know what it is to truly live? Will I finally feel safe? Falling and just letting the sea take me would be so easy.

And I kept repeating to myself, “I want to go home”—a place where I will finally feel safe. That is all I want.

While the cold breeze of the shore was attacking and hardening my skin, I kept thinking: I’m not asking to have no problems in life, because that is how we learn, but I want normal people’s problems. I want to know that I can go home at the end of the day and not feel scared of anyone’s mood. I don’t want my parents’ bad decisions to impact my life.

I think that the feeling of wanting a real home has made me someone so introspective, because I always find myself feeling this immense feeling of not belonging, and yet I yearn to belong. And alone, I always end up in front of my window, thinking about the beautiful world I believe that I can create.

But I still imagine myself feeling all alone, looking at everybody, and I can hear myself say one day: “Everyone is happy, right? But I wonder what it would feel like to be here with them too.”

I know that maybe I’m talking in riddles, but what I mean by that is that I think I will always feel this immense love for humanity, but I will always be alone.

And I promise this is not me being narcissistic or thinking I’m some kind of Jesus, I promise. But it is like everyone thinks that I’m so perfect, and it makes me feel so alone because I never know if they actually see me in all my nuances. In a way, they always tend to leave because they’ve put such high expectations on me that they are either scared to be with me, or they feel that they are not good enough for me, or they just leave when they get what they need from me.

And the pressure is too much; it’s lonely to be seen as perfect.

In my personal life, it seems like every person that I’ve ever gotten close to just leaves—my mom, my dad, my siblings, friends, partners—because I was just not enough, or they got everything that they needed from me. And it makes me wonder: did I do something bad? Is being good not enough?

But I promise, I am still holding on to hope because this is all I have. Hope that things will get better. I have faith in myself, because without it, what would be the point? I will find my real home one day.

I surrender to something greater than this short life that I had; I surrender to hope.

Love Always,

Nohan Charlie Victor