Maybe This Is Who I Am

I have written a lot about what happened to me. About childhood, diseases, hostel life, loneliness, people, guilt, fear, my parents, and many other things. But I don’t think I have ever sat down and honestly asked myself one simple question.

Who am I?

Not what I study. Not where I live. Not what degree I am doing. Not what projects I am building. Just… what kind of person am I?

So this time I am trying to look at myself from outside. And I don’t want to make myself look good. I also don’t want to make myself look bad. I just want to be honest.

I think I feel everything too deeply.

A small thing can stay in my mind for days, months, sometimes years. Someone’s tone changes and I notice it. Someone remembers me and I remember that moment. Someone ignores me and I remember that too. A normal conversation for another person can become something I replay in my head again and again.

I still remember small things from childhood. Coming home from school in summer. Standing in front of the cooler. Drinking Rasna. Watching Doraemon. These are very normal memories, but for me they are not just memories. They feel like a place. A safe place that does not exist anymore.

Maybe that is why I think about childhood so much. The present has become complicated, so my mind keeps going back to a time when life was simple.

I am also very emotional. Probably more than I show.

Most people around me will never know how much one sentence can affect me. I can keep a normal face, go back to my room, close the door, and then everything comes out. I don’t like crying in front of people. I don’t like showing that something hurt me. So most of the time I act like it is fine.

“No problem.”

I use these two words a lot.

But if I am being honest, sometimes there is a problem.

Sometimes I say no problem because I don’t want the other person to feel guilty. Sometimes I say it because I don’t want an argument. Sometimes because I think maybe I don’t have the right to be hurt. And sometimes I say it because I have no idea how to explain what I am actually feeling.

I forgive other people very easily. Maybe too easily. If someone ignores me, I think they must be busy. If someone does not help me, I think they have their own work. If people don’t include me, I think everyone has the right to choose who they want to spend time with. If someone speaks harshly to me, I start thinking about what I did that made them speak like that.

I always find a reason for other people.

But when it comes to myself, I don’t do the same.

For myself, one mistake can become a full judgement. I don’t just think, “I did something wrong.” I start thinking, “There is something wrong with me.”

That is probably one of my biggest problems.

I am very kind to other people and very cruel to myself.

And there is another truth that is difficult to admit.

I like helping people. I genuinely do. If someone asks me for help with an assignment, some work outside, a project, or anything I can do, my first answer is usually yes. I believe that if I can make someone’s life a little easier, then why not.

But maybe there is something else hidden inside that yes too.

Maybe being useful makes me feel needed.

Maybe some part of me hopes that if I am always there for people, they will also remember me when I need someone. Maybe I hope they will knock on my door one day and say, “Come, we are going outside.”

And when that doesn’t happen, it hurts.

This is where I need to be honest with myself. Nobody signed a contract saying that because I helped them, they have to become close to me. If I help someone, it should be because I want to help. If I secretly expect love, friendship, attention, or the same effort in return, then I should at least admit that to myself instead of saying I expect nothing.

Because I do expect something.

Not money. Not favors.

Maybe just to be remembered.

I think I am lonely, but I am also afraid of people. That’s a strange combination.

I say I have no one to talk to, which is true most of the time. But sometimes when someone calls me, I don’t pick up. I want someone to talk to, but when the chance comes, I don’t always know how to talk. I want connection, but I am scared of starting it. I want people to understand me, but I hide most of myself from them.

So yes… some part of my loneliness comes from outside. But some part of it also comes from me.

That is hard to accept, but it is true.

I wait for someone to knock on my door because I am too scared to knock on theirs.

I wait for someone to ask if I am okay because I don’t know how to say that I am not.

I wait for someone to understand things I never told them.

People cannot always do that.

I also get attached very deeply.

Sometimes I don’t even know if I get attached to the person, or to what that person represents in my mind. Kindness. Positivity. Someone who listened. Someone who felt different from the rest of the world. Someone who appeared at a time when I was already emotionally weak.

And when I get attached, I can overthink everything. A reply. No reply. A call. A sentence. A change in tone.

I have crossed boundaries because of this. I have sent messages when I should have stopped. I have tried to explain myself one more time because I wanted the other person to understand that my intentions were not bad.

But intention is not everything.

Loneliness can explain my behavior. It cannot excuse it.

If someone says stop, I have to stop. If someone does not want contact, then my need for closure does not become their responsibility. I don’t get one more message just because I feel guilty. My guilt is mine to deal with.

That is something I needed to learn.

I don’t think I am a bad person because I made these mistakes. But I also don’t want to hide behind the sentence “I am a good person.” Good people can still make other people uncomfortable. Good intentions can still cross boundaries. Being hurt does not give me permission to hurt someone else.

I have to own that.

Another thing about me is that I think too much about everything.

Past. Present. Future. What someone meant. What I should have said. What would have happened if I had done something differently. What will happen to my academics. What will happen to my health. What will happen to my parents. What will happen five years from now.

Sometimes I spend so much time thinking about life that I forget to live the day that is actually happening.

I can lie on the bed for an hour doing nothing except thinking. Then move to the floor and continue thinking. Then put on an emotional song that gives my brain even more things to think about.

Sometimes I know exactly what I am doing to myself and still do it.

That is also the truth.

I feed my own sadness sometimes.

I scroll emotional reels. I listen to the songs that hit the same wound again and again. I watch movies that make me feel more. Maybe because feeling sadness is still better than feeling nothing.

I don’t know.

I am nostalgic. I romanticize small moments. I like the ghats at night, flowing water, quiet roads, songs, movies with emotions, and memories that probably mean much more to me than they would to someone else.

There is beauty in that part of me. But there is also danger in living too much inside memories and imagination.

The real world is not always as emotionally complete as the world inside my head.

People will disappoint me. I will disappoint people. Some friendships will never happen. Some people will leave. Some will misunderstand me. Sometimes I will be the one who was wrong.

Life will not explain every ending.

And I have to learn to live even without getting every answer.

There is one sentence I have written in different ways many times: I don’t want anything for myself. I only want to give my parents a good life.

It sounds selfless.

But maybe I need to question it.

Because at some point selflessness can become self-neglect.

If I really want my parents to have a good life, then completely destroying myself while trying to give it to them makes no sense. I am also part of their life. I cannot say I care about them and then treat myself like I don’t matter at all.

Maybe I do want things for myself. I am just scared to admit them.

I want friends.

I want someone to knock on my door.

I want to sit with people without feeling like I am disturbing them.

I want to travel.

I want to build things.

I want to speak confidently without getting stuck.

I want to make videos someday even if I dropped the idea once.

I want to watch movies with someone instead of always watching them alone.

I want my parents to be proud and peaceful.

I want to feel healthy again.

I want to wake up one morning and not immediately feel tired of the day before it even starts.

So no, it is probably not true that I want nothing for myself.

I want a lot of very normal things.

I have also written some dark sentences. About having no future. About being done with life. About dying with guilt. About not knowing whether I will make it.

I cannot pretend those are just dramatic lines in a blog.

They came from somewhere real.

There are times when I become so exhausted that my mind starts talking like there is nothing after this moment. But I don’t want those moments to become my identity. Pain is something I am experiencing. It is not the full definition of who I am.

Because there is another side of me too.

I still make plans.

I still build projects.

I still think about places I want to visit with my parents.

I still have a list of things I want to do before turning 30. Feed animals. Plant trees. Spend time with people who feel forgotten. Help someone find work. Change someone’s life if I ever become capable of doing that.

A person who truly wants absolutely nothing would probably not keep imagining all these things.

Maybe somewhere inside me there is still a lot of hope. It is just buried under fear, illness, loneliness, guilt, and exhaustion.

I think I am sensitive. Very sensitive.

I am introverted, but I don’t think I actually want isolation.

I am generous, but I need boundaries.

I am forgiving, but sometimes I forgive others so quickly that I forget to protect myself.

I overthink, sometimes until a small thing becomes bigger than it ever was.

I care deeply, but sometimes I become attached too deeply.

I am scared of hurting people, yet sometimes that fear itself makes me keep explaining and makes things worse.

I want to be useful because being useful makes me feel like I have a place in someone’s life.

I miss childhood because it represents safety to me.

I say “no problem” when there is a problem.

I say “I don’t want anything” when actually I am afraid that what I want will never happen.

I give other people explanations and give myself punishment.

And maybe the hardest truth is this: I have spent a lot of time asking why nobody chooses me while I have barely learned how to choose myself.

That doesn’t mean buying things for myself or becoming selfish.

Maybe choosing myself simply means eating properly even when I don’t feel like it. Taking care of my body. Saying no sometimes. Accepting that I cannot save everyone. Not chasing people who don’t want me around. Allowing myself to want friendship without being ashamed of it. Asking for help before everything becomes unbearable. And understanding that making a mistake does not mean I have to punish myself forever.

I don’t know if this is exactly who I am.

Maybe nobody knows themselves completely.

But after everything I have written, this is probably the most honest picture I can make right now.

I am not a hero. I am not a victim in every story. I am not a bad person. I am not some exceptionally good person either.

I am just a person who feels too much, thinks too much, gives too much sometimes, asks for too little, makes mistakes, gets lonely, gets attached, gets scared, and still somehow wakes up the next day and continues.

Maybe that is enough for now.

And maybe before trying to give everyone else a better life, I need to learn that my life is also one of the lives I am allowed to care about.