I’m Think of Ending Things

Everything feels like it’s slipping out of my hands. When things get this overwhelming, it makes me question myself in ways I don’t want to, like I’m too weak to handle the moments life keeps throwing at me. Even the smallest interactions feel heavy. I’m constantly stuck between what people say and what’s being written, trying to make sense of contradictions that just drain me. 

Imagine feeling like most of the people in your life either hate you without ever giving you a chance or only appreciating you when it’s already too late. Imagine feeling like your image, your past, and even your future is no longer yours to control. That’s what it feels like to me. Everything is coming at me from every angle, and I can’t outrun any of it. 

I’m shouting for things to change. I’m begging for peace. But instead, I’m still being dragged into the same exhausting cycle, especially by someone who’s been harassing me for more than four years. I’m constantly hearing, “my girlfriend, my ex, my girlfriend from high school, a Gemini I dated, my ex,” repeatedly, and somehow, I’m always pulled into that conversation. I don’t understand why I’m even part of it. I don’t want to be. I just want all of this to stop. 

You create a new account, try to start fresh, try to rebuild your social life, and he’s still there. He finds you every time. You report it to the police, and they treat it like it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing, it’s the worst possible thing. What do you want nudes? Just take it, that’s an issue, sending videos of you cutting yourself, and he keeps coming back... anybody? I’m meant to be an artist, can you imagine, you make a new account just for art, is that automatically an invitation to ask for nudes? To continue to harass a younger girl studying in college, who repeatedly asked you to stop, and couldn’t clearly communicate this with teachers, friends or family?  

You finally graduate, and somehow, he’s still there. You couldn’t even go to your own graduation because the police showed up at your door that morning. They brushed it off— “oh, she’s fine”—as if the fear, the history, the danger meant nothing. And months later you get a message saying, “I hate this.” But does he really hate it? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like he won whatever it was he was trying to accomplish, because I’m admittedly fucked up now. My life was torn apart long before that message and way before I sought out better for myself at college. 

And it keeps repeating. You start a seasonal job; you finish it; things feel quiet for a moment—and then ping, a new message. He’s back. Again. It’s ridiculous, it’s invasive, and it’s beyond exhausting. Every time you try to move forward, every time you try to rebuild, he shows up like a shadow you never asked for. You try to explain what kind of torment he’s caused you, and it doesn’t matter, that’s a huge red flag. 

There’s no closure. No peace. Just the same cycle, repeatedly, haunting milestones that should have been yours to enjoy and remember. It’s not normal. It’s not small. And it’s not something anyone should carry alone, yet here I am. 

He caused my decline before I even started school. He caused it after. His behavior followed me into parts of my life that had nothing to do with him, and it kept escalating. It led to situations I should’ve never been in. It led to court. It led to danger. It led me to end up with 12 stitches. I went from going to school, getting great grades, doing well, expecting good things for myself, to multiple overnight visits at a psych ward, with further abuse, and medication that makes me sick. That’s not a coincidence. That’s not something minor. Nobody just behaves that way.

That’s a real problem. A real threat. A real trauma. I still can’t even go to my family about this, because I can’t hear the words “What do you want me to do about it? I can’t do anything about it. Move on.” 

When someone is stalking you and you have absolutely no one to talk to about it, isolation becomes its own kind of fear. And when it gets to the point where your mind is being filled with things you never thought of before—lies, inappropriate messages, twisted ideas that aren’t yours, it becomes obvious that something is very wrong, that someone did something to you, and the reality is, nobody cares, and nobody ever will help you. This isn’t normal. This isn’t something you can just “brush off.” 

The worst part is having no one to talk to. When I try to bring it up, people act like it’s a joke. As if it’s funny that a grown woman is being harassed by a generic Instagram account. As if that means I’m somehow in control of it, or that I’m willingly participating. They don’t see the history behind it, the dangerous situations, the court, the injuries, all the moments that chipped away at my sense of safety and trust, how scared I am. 

All these experiences, all this loss of control, all the rejection from people who once knew me… it builds up. It traps you. Therapy feels useless because it can’t undo the feeling that I’m stuck living in a version of reality where someone else forces me to live. A world I never chose, but one they pushed me into. 

I feel trapped—and that’s the truth. People do get trafficked, people do get stalked and harassed, and I really don’t understand why I’m not being helped. Yet, being further pushed towards coming to a resolution that only benefits me. I’m simply disgusted, with myself, with the community, and most of all the police system.  

Trust me, I’m thinking of ending things. It’s your fault.