The Day I Didn’t Know What I Felt
I wasn’t sad.
I wasn’t angry.
I was just… something.
It was around 2PM when I realised I had been pacing the flat for twenty-three minutes. Not cleaning. Not thinking. Just… circling. Like something in me was trying to move, but didn’t know where to go.
I opened the fridge, stared at the oat milk. Closed it again. Checked my phone. Forgot what I picked it up for. Sat down. Then stood up again.
No tears. No rage. Just a fog.
And underneath that fog: something tender. Something sharp. Something unnamed.
I’d like to say I immediately picked up a pen and started journaling. I didn’t.
I opened five tabs and tried to diagnose myself.
Then I ate toast.
Then I stared at the kettle.
Then, eventually, I did pick up a pen. Not because I was inspired — but because I didn’t know what else to do.
And here’s what I wrote:
“I feel like something is wrong with me, but I don’t know what. I want to cry, but there are no tears. I want to scream, but it would sound fake. I want to disappear, but not because I want to die. Just… because I don’t know who’s here.”
That was the sentence.
And somehow — just writing that was enough to soften the fog a little.
It didn’t fix anything. But it gave the “something” inside me a place to rest.
Sometimes, that’s all we need.
Not a solution. Not a breakthrough.
Just one sentence that admits: “I don’t know what I feel, but I know I’m feeling something.”
That’s where healing begins.
If this feels familiar, you’re not broken. You’re just holding something you haven’t named yet.
Try naming the fog — even if it’s imperfect. Even if it’s just: “Something hurts, and I don’t know what.”