Don´t look for me when I'm gone!

Don't look for me when I’m gone, because you never looked for me while I was alive.

Loneliness is one of the most terrifying things. My phone never rings unless it’s my mother. My house is silent most of the time. Sometimes I play loud music to make it seem like there’s life here, to try and drown out this sadness that consumes me.

I feel my face melting under the weight of sorrow.

I have no one on the other side.

It’s just me.

It has always been just me.

Life goes on, but in mine, time just passes.

There is no movement.

It’s like watching a business slowly go bankrupt. The outside of the store gets older and abandoned, while inside, everything rots away.

No children.

No family. Well, there is family, but in reality, there isn’t.

I could slit my wrists today, and only in a few days would someone notice I was gone.

So, when I disappear, don't cry. Because today, I cry for you.

This is not a self-help book.

If you came looking for inspiration, for a story of resilience and triumph, you should leave now.

This is not a self-help book.

There are no lessons of strength, no neatly wrapped conclusions, no promises that things get better.

What you will find here is a true story — a story filled with sorrow, loneliness, and the kind of pain that lingers, unresolved.

There is no hero.

No redemption arc.

Just a life, raw and unfiltered, unfolding in fragments of memories that refuse to fade.

I am not here to tell you how to heal, because I haven’t healed. This is not about overcoming anything.

This is about existing in the aftermath, about carrying wounds that never fully close.

If you stay, know that what you will read is real. And sometimes, reality doesn’t come with a happy ending.

The greatest wish of my life, ever since I was a child, was to belong to something.

Rejection started early.

Looking back, I see that little girl with sadness, because she cries from an invisible pain, and all she hears is shouting.

I remember one time, I begged for help through tears, because I was being tormented by a cousin. The adult who heard me clenched her teeth and yelled at me with such hatred.

Maybe it was the first time I felt unheard.

The first time I realized I didn’t belong.

I must have been five or six years old.

I looked up to that woman. I admired her beauty, her long dark hair. But for the rest of the night, she didn’t play with me. She ignored me. I felt something sink inside me, a weight in my chest.

My hands felt cold.

I wanted to disappear, to become small enough that no one would notice me. But at the same time, I wanted to scream, to as why.

It was the first time I felt out of place.

The first time I learned that asking for help didn’t always mean being saved.

These memories stay hidden, locked away in a drawer, repressed.

But they never truly fade.

Looking back at what I just told you, I can say that two years ago, I asked for help again—and it went terribly wrong.

I started working at a high school. My employers were the City Council. For an entire year, I was sexually harassed by a coworker. Later, I will share the details, but for now, just know that when the harassment escalated to physical touch, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I asked for help.

I spoke to a psychologist. I begged them not to press charges because my abuser was already 60 years old, and her mother was sick. I only asked for one thing —to be moved somewhere else, away from her.

To my shock, I was the one who got punished for speaking up.

They transferred me to a school 40km away from my workplace.

Too far from my home.

I pleaded with them not to do this to me.

I live alone.

I pay my own bills. My salary isn’t enough to cover 80km of travel every day.

Did they listen?

No.