Each day I wake up as a different person

Lately I wake up with a heaviness in my body. Even when I sleep, I carry a kind of fatigue that weakens me; getting up takes more effort than it usually would. The moment I manage to sit at the edge of the bed, my whole body floods with fear: Will this be a normal day, or one of those days when everything feels absurd and incomprehensible?

I often blame my anxiety for it, or I see it as my natural response to a world that never seems to learn from its past. But that doesn’t make the feeling any less irritating, and I immediately try to do something about it.

In a burst of false confidence, I tell myself that with enough effort I can orchestrate the perfect plan to reduce the symptoms. I try to introduce any activity that strengthens the narrative that I’m not unwell. I work out, I write, I design, I talk to friends, I go for walks. I want immediate validation. I want the exhaustion to disappear, and to prove that everything is under control. Under my control.

But it doesn’t last. A few days later, I’m back in the same pessimistic, depressive state. This is when everything turns blurry, when it takes only seconds before I explode — starting to hate everyone around me, including myself. Anger bubbles up in my chest and stomach like acid burning me from the inside. I want someone to switch me off, someone to hold me. On good days, it ends after a good cry. On the worst days, I end up arguing with the people around me — people who have hurt me, and my hatred feels justified.

It becomes a constant loop, a kind of Russian roulette where I fire a shot into the air every day, hoping I’ll finally understand how to calculate when the bullet will come. I feel myself slowly surrendering to my madness. A madness that leaves me fragmented — each day waking up as a different person. And I start to wonder if I’m genuinely losing my mind.

I read somewhere that madness is the observer’s natural response to life. It’s the price you pay for choosing to stop and absorb instead of rejecting. The price of feeling.

The more I refuse to accept my madness, the more it slips out of my hands. I splinter into smaller pieces that try not to vanish or drift apart. They strain to stay together just to keep me standing. In those moments my thoughts are so heavy I would do anything for them to stop — for them to let me breathe without fear.

As the days pass, the fatigue becomes so deep that I don’t even have the energy to hate myself, and that opens a small space for my brain to slow its processing down. It’s as if I enter a drowsy state where I survive on the last reserves of energy — and it’s in that moment, when I completely submit to my mind and body, fully releasing control, that I start to feel whole again.