Okay, so I did something I didn’t think I’d ever do—I’m typing out pages from my physical diary. Yeah, the same one with smudged ink, random doodles, and my most chaotic thoughts. I guess part of me wants to preserve it somewhere digital. Another part just wants to be heard.
So here it is. Raw. Honest. Me.
“Some days I don’t want to be strong.
Some days I don’t want to be positive.
Some days I don’t want to be kind.
Some days I just want to be mean.
I want to cry.
I want to scream.
I want to fight.
I want to be selfish.
I want to be self-centered.
I want to be the villain.”
Yeah, that was one of those days where everyone expected me to keep it all together—and I just didn’t want to. Sometimes the pressure to always be the “nice girl” makes me want to go full villain mode. And that’s real.
“I want to feel something other than sadness, anger, pain, numbness, and tiredness.
I want to be happy again.
I want to be in love again.
I want to laugh until I cry.
I want to live and not just survive.
I want to dance again.
I want to sing again.
I want to smile again.
I want to love me again.
I want to be me again.”
That entry hit me hard when I reread it. I wrote it in a moment of pure exhaustion—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. But it was also a cry for hope. For joy. For me. The real me. Not the broken one, or the performing one.
“I’m tired of crying.
I’m tired of pretending.
I’m tired of hurting.
I’m tired of surviving.
I’m tired of existing.”
This was rock-bottom honesty. I remember writing those lines while lying on the floor, just feeling completely done. Like… done with everything. But strangely, getting those words out helped. Naming the pain made it a little less heavy.
“I want to scream so loud until all the pain leaves my body.
I want to throw something to get all this rage out.
I want to hit something to stop the emotional pain.
I want to just be left alone and cry.
I want to disappear.”
I debated whether to post this part. It’s dark. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s true. This is the part of mental health that people don’t put in Instagram captions. It’s not cute or inspirational. It’s just… pain.
If you’ve ever felt any of these things—know you’re not alone. These aren’t just scribbles in a notebook. They’re parts of me trying to survive. And maybe if I share them, someone else will feel a little less alone in their storm.
And if you’re reading this and thinking, “This is too much”… good. Because this is a lot. And so am I.
This blog is my way of peeling back the mask, one messy, beautiful entry at a time.
– A bipolar, anxious, Cuban-American woman writing her way back to herself.
Scarlette Febles 
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