Fallen Angel. Between the Skin and the Grave.

“They think I chose to live.

But really, I just didn’t choose to die.

And everything in between — that’s called ‘existing.’

That’s my new chapter.”

Content:     

Part One : Prologue. 

• Prologue      
• I’ve Been Through It All — And I Still Don’t Know Who I Am
• When I Lost Myself

Chapter: Our Marriage and Living Together

Part Two : What Was Left Behind

• Fallen Angel. When Regret Came Back    
• Red Thread of Fate. The whole truth.
• My Crimes, My Sentence, My Truth

Part Three : Back to the real me

• That’s when everything changed
• While It Still Hurts
• Becoming Someone I’ve Never Been

Final Chapter / Epilogue:

• The Grave Doesn’t Call Me Anymore

Part One: Prologue

Prologue

I’m 30 now. And every morning, I’m losing why I even bother waking up.

It’s not living — it’s just empty existence. Day after day, no purpose, no hope. I just breathe. My body still does it on its own, but my soul’s been frozen for a long time.

Since I was 18, my life was fire — no rules, no breaks, always on the edge. Parties, streets, danger, money, adrenaline — it was a wild storm where at least I felt something. That chaos gave me some kind of meaning, some kind of pain that proved I was alive.

But now?

Nothing. Silence. Empty. No movement, no breath inside.

I’m stuck. Between what was and what I never became. Between a past that tears me up and a future that never shows.

I chose a different path. Tried to be better. Tried to be someone I could be proud of.

But it’s all just an empty shell. That emptiness inside won’t fill up.

I lost myself. Forgot who I am. Don’t even know why I’m here.

After all the pain, after facing the consequences — I don’t know what I want from life. I left the criminal life behind, don’t need that anymore. But even though I’m not behind bars, I pay every day with the thought that my brother doesn’t wanna see or hear from me.

All the advice sounds the same and useless: “Find yourself,” “Work harder,” “Start small.”

I tried. Tried hard. But I’m worn out. I’m like a bottomless pit where energy just falls in and disappears.

I live in a fog — mixed with numbness and pain. I laugh and talk, but it’s all a mask. Inside — just emptiness, cold, and numbness.

Everything I went through — feels like it meant nothing.

All the struggle, all the pain, all that hell — just dissolved into the emptiness of the last two years where I’m just getting through, scared to completely fall apart.

I’m standing on the edge. Scared I’ll start drinking heavy again just to feel something. Sliding back down would be way too easy.

 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. We’ll talk about that in the chapter called “Red Thread of Fate. The Whole Truth.”

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.

When I Lost Myself

After going through treatment for sex addiction and quitting drugs, I thought I was ready to come back home — to Tampere. I had been waiting for that moment for a long time. But deep down, I knew just coming back wasn't enough. I had to break free from my addictions first, before I could even try to live a different life here — without the same old crowd, without the street life I knew so well.

I had to learn to live without constantly looking over my shoulder.

And the irony?

For the first six months back, I worked at a store where the same dealers from my past kept showing up. The same people I used to run with. I watched them, but I didn’t get involved. I didn’t want any trouble. I just made sure they weren’t selling to kids, or dragging anyone back into that world. That was my line.

All I wanted was for my old life to forget about me. For the streets to move on without me. I just wanted to be invisible.

And after about a year, I finally stopped feeling paranoid every time I walked downtown on a weekend night.

People stopped looking twice.

I stopped wondering if someone would recognize me.

But the reputation — that stayed.

And even now, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Because it’s a part of me that never really left.

And I still don’t know who I am now — not enough to rewrite my story, anyway.

But one thing I do know: I’m not fully healed.

I still have moments. Breakdowns.

Rage, out of nowhere. Flashbacks from the past that hit me like a punch in the chest.

And when they come, I just stop.

It’s like time freezes, and all I can feel is this flood of who I used to be.

It scares the hell out of me.

It's hard to admit that I hurt people.

That I caused pain.

Back then, I thought I was doing it for some twisted sense of justice.

Now I know it was just an excuse.

None of it was worth it.

Yeah, maybe it helped me survive.

Maybe all that darkness built up a tolerance for pain.

But it also taught me to shut down. To bury everything so deep I can’t even cry anymore.

I can’t feel regret.

I can’t offer comfort.

Because that part of me — the human part — got buried a long time ago, just so I could keep moving.

So I wouldn’t end up with a bottle in one hand and a blade to my throat.

I went through hell with my addictions.

But I still don’t know how to live without them.

I’m trying. Every day.

I don’t know how “normal” people wake up and find reasons to keep going. But I’m doing my best to figure it out.

I’m searching for a reason to stay alive.

Because if I don’t find one — I know I’ll lose myself again.

Chapter: Our Marriage and Living Together

Over the last couple of years, what started out as just a casual thing turned into something more solid. We decided to move in together and, last January, we got married. It wasn’t a big, fancy deal — just something real and meaningful for us.

Sure, we have fights sometimes. Nothing crazy or relationship-breaking, just normal disagreements. We don’t always see eye to eye, but we’ve learned how to listen and work things out without drama. Respect and trust are what really keep us going.

We don’t have any special routines or rituals. We don’t spend tons of time glued to each other, either. Everyone’s got their own thing going on, and that’s cool. We respect each other’s space and independence.

Living together means sharing the day-to-day stuff — chores, bills, figuring out who does what — but also knowing when to back off and let the other person be. It’s not about trying to change each other or forcing things. We just accept how things are.

Our place isn’t always buzzing with conversations or hanging out, but it’s calm. It’s a space where we can both just be ourselves without explaining or pretending. And that’s enough. It’s comfortable. We’re a team, but not a perfect one — just real.

We’re not about grand romantic gestures or nonstop excitement. It’s more about simple, honest living — being there for each other, keeping it low-key, and handling life together. Sometimes it’s boring, sometimes it’s routine, but that’s part of what makes it work.

This way, we don’t lose ourselves while being with each other. And even with all its ups and downs, we know we made the right choice. Having someone you can rely on without all the drama? That’s what matters.

Part Two : What Was Left Behind

Fallen Angel. When Regret Came Back 

When I first decided to leave the criminal world behind, it felt like stepping out of the shadows — like I finally had a shot at a new life, a chance to be someone else. I started a relationship. And not just with anyone — with someone who made me feel, for the first time, like I could be more than just a fighter stuck in survival mode. Like I could actually be someone worth living for.

Back then, everything felt almost perfect — or at least, as perfect as it could feel for someone like me.

But I was still new to that world. The world of emotions, trust — where it wasn’t just my life on the line, but someone else’s soul.

I was learning how to live for someone else. And man, that was way harder than I ever thought it’d be. I messed up a lot. I’d lose control — often. My past had made me damaged and dangerous. I didn’t know how to handle my anger. It would just explode out of me without warning. I’d tear things apart — including what I was trying so hard to build.

But even back then, there was still something human in me. I could cry. Not often, not a lot — but when I did, it was real. Those tears meant there was still something inside me that could feel regret. That could feel the pain of loss, of screwing up. That tiny spark gave me hope.

Still, I missed the most important part — I didn’t learn how to control what I felt. I didn’t want to change. I didn’t want to admit I needed help, someone to pull me out of the dark.

I couldn’t separate the constant threat from my past life from the peace that a real relationship needed. I kept living like I was in danger around every corner. That anxiety poisoned everything good.

And in the end, because of my stubbornness, I lost that person. Not because they were bad or didn’t get me. I lost them because I wasn’t ready to learn — how to be calm, how to be vulnerable, how to be someone else.

After the breakup, something inside me just snapped. To keep myself from going crazy from the pain and loneliness, I shut my feelings down. It’s like they froze — turned to ice that wouldn’t melt, not even under the heat of memory. I became cold, distant — not just from others, but from myself.

That person had been my last real connection to being human. And when I lost them, I fell into this deep void.

It’s been a long time since then. I’ve learned how to live again — kind of. Learned how to manage my emotions, or at least look like I do.

But the truth is, a lot of it’s still locked up deep inside. Like a wound I never let heal.

I’ve tried to cry — nothing comes. I say “I’m sorry” because people expect it, not because I actually feel it.

Sometimes I don’t even realize I’ve hurt someone, because I’ve been so disconnected from my own emotions. My apologies turned fake — I’d smile or smirk, not because I thought it was funny, but because I didn’t know how else to respond. I forgot what it means to really feel. To be sincere. To have compassion. To open your heart when the world still feels dangerous.

Then one day — in the middle of a full-blown rage — I attacked someone.

And right in that moment, when the anger peaked, these old memories hit me like a freight train.

Memories of how I used to do the same thing to people who didn’t deserve it.

Of how I let my inner demons destroy everything good.

And for the first time in years, I felt regret. That same spark from before — it came back.

And I cried. Just one tear. Small. Barely there. But it was real.

I wiped it away quick, trying to keep it together — but that moment stuck with me.

Now I know — that spark is the key. It’s what started everything.

It’s the one thing that might help me unlock the door I’ve kept shut for so long.

But I still don’t know if I’m ready to open it.

To think about that person again — their voice, their eyes, all those memories — and not fall apart.

I don’t know if I can handle it without breaking even more.

But I do know this: that path is waiting for me.

And that red thread, the one that connects me to my past — it’s still there.

It’s still pulling me toward something I thought I’d lost forever.

Sometimes, I felt like I wasn’t even human. Not in the literal sense — I had a body, I breathed, I moved, I talked. But inside? There was just… nothing. People passed me by, talking, feeling, laughing, getting angry — and I just watched. Like I was staring through thick glass at a world I didn’t belong to. I didn’t feel what they felt. I barely felt anything at all.

And that scared me. Especially when I remembered that it wasn’t always like this.

I used to laugh for real. Cry at night when I couldn’t hold it in. Shake from anxiety when I was afraid of losing someone. That version of me feels so far away now, like a stranger I barely recognize. The me from before I locked my heart away. Before I decided emotions were a weakness. That regret was just extra weight I didn’t need.

So I built a wall. No, more like a fortress. Tall. Solid. Nothing could get in — not love, not pain. Just control. Calculation. Complete emotional shutdown. I looked at people like they were chess pieces. Trust? Attachment? No way. That gets you hurt. You open up, they’ll strike. You show weakness, they’ll tear you apart.

And I got used to living like that. I got comfortable in the cold. Honestly, it felt easier — no heartbreak, no stress, no worrying about anyone but myself. But over time, something inside started to rot. Like rust settling on what used to be a working machine. I wasn’t myself anymore… but I had no clue who I’d become either.

I’d look in the mirror and not even recognize the guy staring back. Same face. Same eyes. But the look in them? Empty. Tired. Like whoever used to live behind them had already checked out and was just going through the motions.

And then that outburst happened. That one burst of rage — it was like a crack in the wall. I knew that anger. I’d lived with it forever. I thought I could handle it, like always. Thought I’d bury it. But this time, something hit harder. A memory came up, outta nowhere. Not just any memory — a sharp one. One that stabbed.

I saw myself back then. Saw the damage I’d done. Not to enemies — to people who stood by me. Who believed in me. Who loved me.

And suddenly… I broke. Just a little. Something inside slipped. One tear. Just one. Tiny. Barely there. I wiped it away fast, like it was dirt. Didn’t want anyone to see. Hell, I didn’t even want to admit it to myself. But it was too late. I felt it. Real regret. Something alive. Something heavy. Something warm, somehow.

That moment cracked open a door I’d sealed shut for years.

After that, I couldn’t stop thinking — maybe all this time, I wasn’t fighting the world… maybe I was just fighting myself. Maybe those walls and masks weren’t protecting me — maybe they were locking me in.

I kept wondering: why that moment? Why then? Why did that one flash of rage bring regret crashing in?

I started digging for answers. Not on purpose — more like my mind started doing it on its own. Memories I’d buried started slipping through. Little pieces. Bits I thought were long gone. Like I was standing at a door again, and everything I tried to forget was still waiting on the other side.

I didn’t want to remember. I was scared to. Because I knew — if I opened that door, I’d have to walk all the way through. And he’d be there. That person. Not as a fantasy. Not as a ghost. But as a truth I couldn’t handle. Someone who broke me. Maybe the only one who ever saw who I really was underneath all of it.

I kept pushing the memory away. Like someone afraid of drowning avoids deep water. But every day, it got harder. Harder not to think. Not to feel. Not to wonder.

I don’t know what I’ll find if I decide to really go back to those days. But deep down… I already know. That’s where the thread begins. The red thread I cut myself. The one that still stretches through time, through silence, through everything I pretended not to care about.

It’s still there. It’s still pulling.

I haven’t reached for it yet. Haven’t grabbed hold. But I can hear it — faint, but clear. Humming in the dark. Calling me. Not offering comfort. Not offering redemption. Just… truth.

And maybe that’s the only thing that really matters now.

Red Thread of Fate. The whole truth.

There was this one guy I met, once. Just a moment in time, really, but it stayed with me.

He seemed… soft. Gentle, in a way I didn’t quite understand back then. And since I’d never had anything close to a first date — not really — he ended up being that for me. My first. The first time I let someone in far enough to matter.

We ended up living together for a while. It wasn’t perfect — far from it — but there were moments. Moments I still can’t erase, no matter how hard I try. Most of the time, I try not to look back. I avoid it, like someone avoiding a mirror when they know they won’t like what they see. But some memories just don’t fade. Some stick to your skin like smoke.

Our first kiss… I’ll never forget that. I remember walking him to the bus stop, and just — something came over me. I pinned him lightly against the shelter, looked him in the eyes, and kissed him. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Back then, I was bolder. More direct. When I wanted something, I just went for it.

It’s crazy how much a single moment can hold. That kiss wasn’t just a kiss — it was me stepping into a world I never thought I could have. A world with warmth, connection, something real. For once, I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t guarded. I just felt something — and followed it.

But like I said in the last chapter… I ruined it. I lost him because I couldn’t get my shit together. I kept dragging my past into the present. Couldn’t stop seeing danger where there wasn’t any. Couldn’t control the parts of me that I should’ve taken responsibility for. And I paid the price.

After he left — or rather, after I pushed him away — I couldn’t let go. For the longest time, his absence was like a low static noise in the back of my mind. Always there. Always humming. He had become part of my routine, my breathing, my space. And when that was gone… it felt like someone ripped the air out of the room.

But eventually, I gave up. Not because I stopped caring, but because I realized I couldn’t keep living in a memory that wasn’t coming back. I couldn’t keep torturing myself with "what ifs" and "maybe if I had..." I decided the only way forward was to bury it. Deep. Lock it away and never touch it again. Forget. Move on. Pretend none of it mattered.

There were nights I wanted to reach out. Just a message. Just a “hey.” But something in me knew it wouldn’t matter anymore. That ship had sailed. I’d burned the bridge myself and stood there watching the flames. And maybe that was part of the punishment — knowing I had no one else to blame.

So I left it. I left him where he was in that timeline of my life, like a photograph stuffed in the back of a drawer. And I told myself that was the right choice. That it was better this way. No pain. No guilt. No more hoping for something I already destroyed.

But you can’t lie to your heart forever.

That red thread people talk about — the invisible line that ties two souls together — I used to think it was bullshit. Just some poetic fantasy people cling to when they’re lonely. But now I’m not so sure. Because no matter how far I went, no matter how many layers I built between me and that part of my life, there’s still a pull.

A quiet tug. A soundless whisper in the dark.

And it’s him. Always him.

I don’t dream about many people. Most faces from my past are a blur. But not his. His face is sharp. His voice clear. Like my mind refuses to let go, even if my mouth does. Even if my pride won’t let me say I still think about him. Still wonder how he is.

Still miss him.

It’s not about romance anymore. It’s not even about regret — not in the traditional sense. It’s deeper than that. He’s tied to something in me that was pure. Something before the walls, before the ice. He knew parts of me I didn’t even know how to name back then.

And maybe he didn’t save me. Maybe he couldn’t. But for a moment — even if I didn’t realize it at the time — I was seen. And that’s rare. That’s the kind of rare that never happens twice.

I know now that forgetting him never worked. I didn’t erase him — I just rewired myself not to feel it. Not to go there. But pain has a funny way of finding its way back. It seeps through cracks you forgot you even had. And it waits. Patient. Quiet. Until the moment something shifts — and it all rushes in again.

I don’t know what I’ll do with this thread. I don’t know if I’ll ever touch it, ever follow it back to wherever it leads. I don’t even know if he still thinks of me — or if he’s long since healed, long since moved on.

But I know this:

Some threads don’t break.

They stretch.

They tangle.

They fade.

But they don’t break.

And maybe that’s not about fate. Maybe it’s just about truth. Maybe we leave pieces of ourselves in people — and if they’re strong enough, they echo. Not because they were meant to be. But because they were.

My Crimes, My Sentence, My Truth

My Crimes, My Sentence, My Truth

Over the past ten years, I’ve made more than a few bad decisions. I’ve broken the law. I’ve sat in courtrooms, hearing my name read out loud, hearing what I did — stripped down to legal terms. I’ve gone through a lot of dark chapters, and even though time has passed, those moments are still with me. They don’t go away. They’ve become a part of me, whether I like it or not.

One of the biggest mistakes I made was using someone else’s personal data without their permission. I knew what I was doing. I wasn’t drunk, high, or out of control. I did it because I thought I was getting back at people who had hurt me. In my head, it felt justified. I told myself they deserved it. That if I was in pain, they should feel some of it too. I thought revenge would bring relief.

It didn’t.

All it brought was more damage — to others, but mostly to myself.

Eventually, it caught up with me. I was charged with two offenses: fraud and unauthorized use of personal data. I had no lawyer. I stood in front of the prosecutor and the judge on my own. I ended up with a mark on my record and a fine — €80 for one charge, and for the other, the prosecutor pushed for either a bigger fine or a 30-day suspended sentence. The court went with the lighter option. It could’ve been worse. They could’ve given me up to 9 months in jail.

I got lucky. Let’s be real — I didn’t deserve that kind of leniency. But I got it.

What hurt more than the sentence, though, was what happened after.

When my family found out, they shut the door. For good. My parents stopped talking to me. No calls. No visits. Nothing. Other relatives followed. I was erased — just like that. Like I never existed. Like I’d brought them so much shame, they couldn’t even look at me.

And honestly… I can’t even blame them.

Growing up, I wanted to make my family proud. I wanted to be someone they talked about with a smile. Now I’m just someone they pretend doesn’t exist. That kind of silence cuts deeper than anything a court can give you.

I’m not sharing this to get sympathy. I don’t want pity. I don’t need people telling me it’s okay — because it’s not. I messed up. Bad. I betrayed people’s trust. I tried to play god with someone else’s pain, thinking it would fix my own.

It didn’t.

So why am I writing this?

Because maybe someone out there is standing at the same crossroads I was — angry, hurt, looking for payback. Maybe they’re thinking of doing something stupid. And if you’re that person, hear me: don’t. It’s not worth it. Revenge doesn’t heal anything. It just adds to the pile of regret you’ll carry for years.

This is my truth. My damage. My responsibility. I live with it every day. But I also hope, little by little, to live past it too.

Part Three : Back to the real me

That’s when everything changed

It all started when my ex showed up — the same guy I’d talked about before.

I’m married now, and I thought that part of my life was behind me, like a chapter I’d closed for good.

But the truth is, I never really forgot him.

Not because I was waiting for him to come back — no, I actually let go of that hope a long time ago.

Still, deep down inside, I held on to the memory of him, like a quiet corner of my soul where light and time didn’t reach.

Five years passed. Five years trying to build a new life, trying to figure out who I was now.

Then out of nowhere, he showed up — like a storm crashing into calm waters.

We talked a lot. Some of it was easy, some of it was tough.

I listened, tried to understand, but didn’t agree with everything he said.

Not all his advice clicked with me.

But something about that meeting hit me deep down, and I couldn’t shake it — it felt like something was changing inside me.

I couldn’t sleep well. My mind kept racing all night. My head hurt from the stress and anxiety I couldn’t explain.

It was like something was boiling inside me — a feeling that my life needed to change.

And that morning, I woke up with a determination born not of fear, but of clarity.

I realized I couldn’t live the way I had been living.

I needed to do more than just move forward — I had to build my own path.

A real one. Solid. Honest.

I realized up until now I hadn’t been working for myself.

I worked hard, got tired, wore myself out with barely any rest, trying to pay off invisible debts.

Not just money debts, but emotional and mental ones that weighed me down and made it hard to breathe.

Now I want to work to break free from that weight, to feel light again.

Not just “keep going,” but actually build — lay down the foundation of my new life.

I know I had plenty of chances before to change things, but I kept putting the wrong things first.

I was lost, wasting time, letting myself get weak.

Now I get it: this is my one shot.

And I want to do this for me — not for anyone else.

To finally become the person I want to be.

That said, I also know I don’t have much energy left.

This is my last push, and I can’t afford mistakes.

I need to plan every step carefully, use all my resources — physical, emotional, spiritual — to make it through.

If things get too tough, I’m not afraid to ask for help. Maybe see a therapist, because sometimes it’s hard to understand and accept yourself.

But for now, I believe in my own strength.

I want to build a foundation that can hold up against anything — fatigue, laziness, burnout, fear, doubt.

So none of that can tear down my new life.

Because I’m starting a journey of recovery.

A journey to rebuild my life and my destiny.

This moment — it’s a turning point.

That’s when everything changed.

While It Still Hurts

I used to think waking up meant you were really alive.

That once I decided “enough,” everything would get easier. But it didn’t.

Sometimes, it actually gets worse.

It feels like I took off my armor, and then got caught out in the rain—naked, vulnerable. Real. No shields, no usual excuses.

I didn’t get stronger.

I just stopped running. I’m walking now. Slow. Through the fear, the anger, the emptiness.

Every morning is a little battle:

• Get up, even if I’m still tired.
• Choose food over booze.
• Go outside, even if the weather sucks—because I have to keep moving. Not ‘cause I want to, but because if I don’t, I’ll sink.

I need to heal my knee. Through the pain, through the struggle.

Because if I don’t get my body back, I won’t get my life back either.

“Recovering yourself isn’t about dreams or work.

At first, it’s just about getting up. Just learning to walk again.”

I can’t go back to work, can’t be myself, if I don’t put myself back together—physically.

No goal, no “future” will move forward until I find my footing—literally.

I still fall apart sometimes.

It’s hard to fight laziness.

Burnout’s still there—hiding in the fog, breathing down my neck.

Every day, I do it through the “I don’t wanna,” just ‘cause I have to.

Sometimes, I feel like a fallen angel.

Burned out in hell. Burned out, inside and out.

I’m covered in ashes, but I’m still moving.

“I’m burning. But I’m moving.

Because when you keep moving, sooner or later the fire dies down.”

It still hurts.

• I miss the ones who broke me.
• I’m mad at myself for letting it happen.
• I’m ashamed of the weakness I see in the mirror.
• I’m scared it’s never gonna work out.

But you know what?

I’m here.

Not lost in thoughts of dying. Not in the void. Not running away.

Right here. With the pain. With the breath. With the truth.

Maybe the pain will go away. Maybe it won’t.

But now I know I can keep moving forward—even while it still hurts.

“As long as it hurts, that means I’m alive.

And at least now, it’s my life.”

Becoming Someone I’ve Never Been

I’m standing on the edge — not just a figure of speech, but like literally at the edge of the world, where the ground just drops off into nothing. The wind’s tearing at my skin, cold like needles stabbing my face. Inside me, there’s a storm raging — doubts crashing like waves, pain like thunder, and silence that’s deafening. My heart’s pounding like a drum in an empty church, every beat reminding me: “You’re still alive.”

Fear’s this heavy armor I took off, but now it’s dragging me down like an anchor, leaving invisible scars on my skin.

But I don’t fall.

I take a step — slow, shaky, unsure, but determined.

I used to be a runner. Someone who built walls around himself, hiding behind smoke and mirrors, too scared to face his own shadow. That me is gone now.

Now I stand here, bare in the pouring rain. No masks, no shields. Just me facing what scares me the most — raw fear, rage that wants to burst out, and emptiness pulling me down.

“I’m a fallen angel, burned in hell. Ash stuck to my skin, like there’s nothing left inside. But I’m still moving.”

That’s my power.

Every morning is a fight. A battle with an invisible beast trying to drag me down. Getting up when my body screams “stay,” when inside there’s darkness and nothingness, when every part of me wants to quit and disappear.

Choosing life when it’s so much easier to run away.

Stepping outside when the world feels like a cold desert, every step a test.

Not because I want to. Because if I don’t, the darkness will swallow me whole.

The path to myself isn’t a fairy tale. It’s burnt hands, scraped knees, blood, and tears.

“Recovery isn’t about dreams or perfect plans. It’s about finding the strength just to stand up. To learn to walk again, when your legs refuse to listen.”

I can’t be myself without putting the pieces back together. I can’t live if my body and soul are broken.

Sometimes I fall — and laziness and burnout are like predators lurking in the dark, whispering: “Give up. You can’t take it anymore.”

But I hear them and I answer:

“I’m burning. But this fire isn’t destroying me. It’s melting the ice inside, lighting a flame. I’m moving forward, and as long as I’m moving — this fire is my strength.”

Yeah, I’m scared. It hurts. I miss the ones who broke me. I’m angry at myself for the weakness I see in the mirror.

But you know what?

I’m here.

Not in the void. Not thinking about running away.

I’m here — with the pain, the breath, the bitter truth.

I’m becoming someone I’ve never been.

This isn’t magic. It’s a slow dance with fear, step by step — through ash and sparks, blood and tears.

I’m learning to accept my brokenness.

And to keep walking, even when inside there’s fire and cold ash.

The pain might never leave. And I’ve learned not to fear it. Because pain is the pulse of my life.

As long as there’s pain — I’m alive.

I breathe. I fight.

My life isn’t a perfect story or a pretty picture. It’s a battlefield, where every step is a victory.

It’s mine.

“If you feel burned to ash, like you’re gone — that’s not the end. It’s the beginning. The start of becoming someone you’ve never been.”

I don’t know who I’ll be tomorrow.

But I know this: I’ll keep walking.

Because I’m fire and ash, storm and silence.

I’m burning.

And I won’t let myself go out.

Epilogue: The Grave Doesn’t Call Me Anymore

There were nights I’d just lie there, staring at the ceiling, thinking…

“What’s the point?”

Not angry. Not even sad. Just empty.

Like something inside me already died.

And I thought — maybe that’s it.

Maybe I just disappear. Quietly.

No drama. No notes. Just… gone.

Yeah, I was close.

Real close.

I heard that whisper —

“Come on. Let it go. Nobody’s gonna miss you anyway.”

But I stayed.

Not because I was strong.

But because something deep inside — some tiny spark — kept breathing.

Barely, but it was there.

Saying:

“Not yet. You’re not done.”

So I fought my way back.  

Ugly. Slow.  

Crawling through hell with bare hands.  

Bleeding, shaking, swearing, breaking.  

But I climbed.

And now… it’s different.

Silence don’t scare me anymore.

Now I sit with it.

Now I can hear myself — my breath, my heartbeat, my will to keep going.

I’m not a ghost. Not a shadow.

I’m alive.

The grave doesn’t call me anymore.

I stopped walking toward it.

It lost its voice.

And I found mine.

I’ve got no perfect plan. No map.

But I’ve got a road. A rough one. Crooked as hell. But it’s mine.

I’m still job-applying.  

Still figuring shit out.  

No finish line in sight — but I’m not stuck anymore.

And I’m walking it. Step by shaky step.

Some days I trip.

Some days I wanna quit.

But now I know — every step I take? That’s a win.

Every morning I wake up? That’s proof I’m still in the fight.

I’m not a hero. I’m not some enlightened soul.

I’m just a guy who looked death in the face one night and said:

“Nah. Not today. I’ve still got shit to do.”

So here I am.

Not fixed. Not broken.

Just real.

And if you’re reading this —

Maybe you’re still holding on too.

If you are — good.  

You're still breathing.  

That's all it takes

The grave don’t call me anymore.

Let it stay quiet.

I’ve got a life to live.

Last Words

I loved once —

deeply, like a fallen angel loves the dark,

with everything I had, no holding back,

so much that love burned through my skin and settled in my bones.

He was the one who really saw me —

not the mask, not the scars, but the light hiding inside.

Then came the darkness of loss.

First, his shadow, fading into the abyss.

Then me, dissolving into the cold emptiness.

The world went gray, faces blurred,

and silence wrapped around me like black wings at night.

Then a new light showed up —

not bright, not fierce, but quiet, like a candle flickering in an abandoned church.

A different soul, unfamiliar yet somehow familiar,

where I heard my own echo, long forgotten and covered in dust.

It was happiness —

different from before.

Not fiery or burning,

but warm, honest, almost sacred.

Sometimes, in the shadows,

I still feel the pull of those forgotten flames —

like ancient ashes that never died out,

feeding me and whispering stories from long ago.

But I don’t live in ruins anymore.

I’m moving forward, through cold and darkness,

building love on the wreckage of old battles —

and in that, I find new strength.

Maybe that’s enough.