the hidden frequency

everything is noise.

my brain is a radio that won’t turn off. i spend my days building these elaborate structures, these schedules, these strenuous calculations just so i can feel like i’m the one driving the car. but i’m not. i’m just a passenger in my own skin. the scenes of my life are moving, and they’re out of order, and i’m just sat here, at a standstill, watching the world move without me.

the calculation is my entire life. it is the need to know the how and the why of every minute, every interaction, and every emotion. it is a desperate, frantic attempt to impose a sense of order on a system that feels fundamentally unstable. if i can calculate the cost, if i can predict the outcome, then maybe, just maybe, i can prevent the crash. but the irony is sharp. i obsess over structure, yet most days, i’m so paralyzed by the mental load that i procrastinate until the structure itself crumbles. the effort to maintain order consumes the very energy i need to actually live.

it feels like smoke. that’s the only word for it. it fills the room, it fills my chest, but every time i try to reach out and grab it, every time i try to give it a label, like anger, grief, loneliness, or fear, it just slips through my fingers. there are no words for the weight of it. it’s a ghost i’m fighting in the dark. i feel the crushing weight of things i cannot name, and i’m waiting for the release, but my body refuses to express it. there are no tears. there is nothing to offer that physical sense of catharsis. i am trapped in this state where the depth of what i feel and my physical ability to express it are worlds apart. i cannot wrap my head around why it stays trapped, but i am learning that even if i cannot name or release it, simply acknowledging its presence is a start.

i’m so frustrated with my own body. i want to cry, the pressure is right there in my throat, it’s physical, it’s heavy, and then my body just swallows it back down. a reflex. a cage i didn’t build.

and then, out of nowhere, the truth that doesn’t fit into any of the logic: i just want to be loved.

i know i am. that’s a fact. but knowing it doesn’t quiet the smoke. knowing it doesn’t change the fact that i feel let down, that i’ve been let down since the start, and that i’ve had to be my own architect, my own security guard, my own diplomat, just to survive the rhythm of a life i didn’t choose.

if i stop the noise, the silence is too loud. it’s where the grief waits. so i calculate. i bottle it up, i push it down, because i’m terrified of hurting the people i care about, even though i know the bottling is what hurts them in the end. it’s a mess.

the social dynamic is a game i don’t know the rules to, yet i’m expected to play at a professional level. i want to participate in the kind of casual, abrasive humor others enjoy, but when it is directed at me in a moment of vulnerability, i struggle to handle it. i find myself wanting to be the person who can hack that social dynamic, yet i constantly find myself overwhelmed by it.

i’m trying to learn how to articulate these needs. i mean the struggle with structure, the impact of unplanned change, and the intense emotional regulation that eupd requires, all without expecting others to carry the weight of my reactions. therapy provides the tools, but when those tools feel like a novelty or become too easy to set aside, i find my boundaries slipping again.

my brain is everywhere but where i want it to be. i don’t know what’s on top of the pile, and i don’t have the control. sometimes i think it is time for a lobotomy, just to get a break from the constant background noise of my own head.

it feels like living in two worlds at once: the one i curate to survive, and the one i’m actually in. the curating is the cost of entry, but the admission fee is rising every day. i see the people around me, and i see how they handle the friction of being alive, how they let things roll off them like water on a slick surface, and i am left wondering why i am coated in sandpaper. everything scrapes. everything catches.

i don’t have the answers. i am just documenting the messy reality of trying to be present for someone i love while my own brain is busy calculating the cost of every word. it is a work in progress, learning to trust my feelings even when they choose not to show themselves on the surface. it is about learning to hold space for my boundaries while staying connected to others, even when the rhythm of the room feels impossible to match.

the smoke isn’t going anywhere yet. but i am documenting it. maybe, one day, it will settle.