My December
My December
Each December, when the sharp winds blow and the thick fog hides the world around me, I can’t stop feeling heavy.
It’s in these moments—foggy mornings with hardly any sunlight or evenings when lights glow softly in the haze—that the world feels like a reflection of my inner turmoil. My thoughts and judgments seem just as clouded, just as lost in the mist.
Moments like these bring back everything that’s been weighing on me all year. The nostalgia, the melancholia, the familiar sense of being broken—it all returns, settling in once again.
What is my worth? Who am I to you? What will become of me? Am I destined to walk this journey alone?
All these questions return year after year, and I can never seem to shake them off. It feels like I’m stuck, circling the same emotional drain. The more I try to get rid of these thoughts, the heavier they become.
It’s as if someone is standing on my chest—no, it’s exactly like that. The pain feels crushing and suffocating, like something I’ve never felt before, even though I know I have.
This year, it’s a bit different.
The feelings are more intense. I can’t focus on anything but the hurt. It’s as though it defines my existence. I know this feeling well, but that doesn’t make it easier to bear. The longer I’ve been living with it, the harder it’s becoming to imagine a way out.
I’m feeling tired—tired of fighting, tired of asking for help from God and the universe, tired of hoping that things might change.
My will to fight is slipping away at a pace I’ve never experienced before. There’s a quiet despair settling in, the kind where you stop pleading for help because you know no one can hear you, nor do they care.
I wish the love I put out into the world would return to me, just once, before I give up on it altogether.
I’m learning the hard way that seeking meaning or validation in places or people who may never understand me the way I need only deepens that sense of isolation, leaving me feeling more alone than I ever was.
The most painful truth is that it’s not the world that is failing me—it’s my own fear.
And I keep realizing that being a coward—scared to take that one step that could fix everything—is keeping me trapped.
As the year approaches its end, I feel a creeping sense of dread. Was it the year that finally broke me? Was it the final “nail in the coffin”?
Because right now, the only thing I’m sure of is that I’m running out of strength. I’m left wondering if I will ever feel seen or understood.
So I keep listening to Linkin Park’s My December on repeat, like I do every year, trying to find comfort in the lyrics that mirror my own thoughts.
And I’d give it all awayJust to have somewhere to go toGive it all awayTo have someone to come home to
And this is my December. This is me, alone.
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