I’ve Been Through It All — And I Still Don’t Know Who I Am

 Sometimes life feels like a long hallway with no windows — just door after door, corner after corner, and you keep hoping that one of them will finally lead to the light. But every turn is the same. Same walls. Same silence. I look back and honestly don’t know how I made it. What kept me going. Why I didn’t just give up. And the craziest part? Now that things are supposed to be better... I still feel like I’m falling apart.

I’ve been in relationships. I had a boyfriend. We were together, shared days and nights, plans and a bed. But I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t even alive inside. I felt like I was playing a part in someone else’s movie — like I was doing all the things people say you should do, but none of it meant anything. I’d wake up, go through the motions, and then at night just sit in silence, wondering why I felt so goddamn empty.

Then there was a time I actually felt alive. I was on my own, but I could breathe. I laughed again. I felt light. I felt free. But there was no one to share it with. I’d walk around, soaking in the world, thinking “this is what living feels like” — but there was no one next to me to say it to. And joy, when it’s only in your own head, starts to fade faster than you’d think.

And then came the darkness. Real darkness. The streets. The criminal world. The kind of life you don’t talk about — where names don’t matter, only reputation. I walked into it by choice. Not because I wanted to hurt anyone — but because I didn’t see another way to survive. That life made me feel powerful. Like I mattered. People feared me, and I told myself that was respect. But deep down? I was just broken. Covered in layers of anger and pride to hide how fucking scared I was.

And yeah, I was in love during all that too. I was trying to hold onto something real while the law was breathing down my neck. I wanted to be good — but I kept being pulled back in. I wanted to love him right, but love wasn’t enough to fix me. Every time he looked at me with trust in his eyes, I felt like a fraud. I wasn’t the person he thought I was. I was dangerous. Not because I wanted to be — but because that’s what I knew. I was wired to survive. And survival, in that world, meant hurting people before they hurt you.

Now I’m married. You’d think things would be different, right? That I’d be different. I’ve walked away from that past. But here’s the thing — I didn’t become someone new. I just stopped being who I was. And that leaves a big-ass hole I don’t know how to fill. Sometimes I feel that old version of me creeping back up. The anger. The edge. The control. I raise my voice, push people away. Not because I want to — but because it's automatic. And when I see fear or confusion in someone’s eyes… I realize I’m still scaring the people I love. That terrifies me more than anything.

I’m not young anymore. I’ve been living with bipolar disorder for years. I’ve learned how to manage it — most days. But when I drink? That’s when it all gets messy. The thoughts come back. Old urges. Regrets. Rage. It’s like the door I bolted shut starts to crack open. And I sit there, clenching my fists, praying I don’t do something I’ll regret. Sometimes survival means just staying home. Not answering that message. Not picking up the bottle. Just getting through the fucking night.

I used to be someone people were afraid of. I built that. I needed it. Being feared felt like power. But now, surrounded by “normal” people — people who just live, laugh, go to work, talk about their feelings like it’s easy — I don’t know how to be. I feel like an outsider. Like I’m too much for this world, too sharp-edged. I don’t know how to let them see the real me without scaring them off. And hiding… well, that’s slowly killing me too.

I don’t want to go back to the streets. I really don’t. That world — the violence, the paranoia, the constant edge — I hate it. But I don’t fully know how to live without it either. I’m learning. But it’s slow. And the world doesn’t wait. It expects you to already know who you are. And I don’t. I’m not who I was — but I have no clue who I’ve become.

There are moments from the past I’d give anything to relive. Just one minute. One night. One fucking hug. But I know I can’t. All I can do is remember. And sometimes, those memories warm me up. Other times? They rip me apart. Because the further away I get from those days, the more I realize... they’re gone for good.

I used to have family. I had people I could lean on. It wasn’t perfect, but I wasn’t alone. The last three years though? I’ve been really, truly alone. I don’t even know how my little brother’s doing. I don’t know if he’s okay. I don’t know if he thinks about me. And that eats me alive. Not every day. But some nights… it crushes me.

There is someone I trust. Someone in his city. I could ask them to find out. Just ask how he’s doing. But I don’t. Because I know I’ll probably get a no — or worse, a yes with a price I can’t pay. And deeper than that... what if my brother doesn’t want to hear from me? What if I’m just a ghost in his past he’d rather forget?

I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m not trying to be a victim. I survived — and that means something. I made choices. I made mistakes. I hurt people. I hurt myself. But I’m still here. Still fighting. Every damn day.

If you’re reading this and feel lost — you’re not alone. If you’ve got a past that haunts you — you’re not alone. If you’re holding yourself together with every last ounce of strength just to not fall back into your old ways — I see you. I’m doing the same.

We don’t have to be perfect. We just have to be real. Even if it’s just with ourselves. That’s where healing begins.