I’m sure people think I’m an absolute misery to be around. My face screams my emotions out loud and I’m rarely aware of it. I’m always being told to cheer up and bring more energy, the ultimate insult. I’d genuinely rather someone commented on my weight. I already tell myself I’m a useless sack of potatoes. I can deal with that.

It’s not that I’m devoid of energy or personality. The world is just too bloody loud and it’s exhausting.

Silence is a luxury I never really have. I live in university halls and spend much of my time in one of the busiest cities on the planet. Even the rare pockets of nothingness are interrupted by someone vlogging, taking a phone call, or blasting clicky music through a speaker loud enough for the O2 Arena.

It never stops.

And it’s not just mild annoyances building up. It’s this incessant need to perform life at all times. I see right through it and it makes me furious. Are people really that miserable?

As a result, I’m constantly exhausted. The social battery is depleted before the day has even begun. Sleep has been stolen from my bipolar brain and there’s rarely time for fun because every day becomes an exercise in optimisation. Even saying no comes with guilt, explanations and shame for needing time and space to recover.

Life feels like a constant drudge through a cesspit of boiling emotions, often all happening at once.

So if I’ve made the effort to see you, attend something, or even just be present, that is a major win. The success has already happened. I am not a performing bear, and poking me will not bring out the best in me.

I’ve often been called a loner. It’s a title I’ve come to wear proudly. Alone, you can’t disappoint people. There’s no small talk and no expectations left to subvert because disappointment always feels inevitable.

What I want, other people don’t want. What I need feels disposable. I bend over backwards accommodating everyone else, so eventually it just feels easier to spend time with my own mind. It’s already there. Waiting after the conversations, arguments, bickering and emotional whiplash. Comfortably swaying on a hammock in the paradise that is isolation.

The problem is that I hate being alone.

Every time I end up back on the apps, or consider putting myself out there, I’m reminded of who I am, where I’m from and what I’ve done. The line carved through my confidence and personality. The permanent scar across everything.

I never deny the wrongdoing. The lashing out. The messages. Trying to get myself locked up because I thought protecting people from me meant removing myself entirely.

Underneath all of that was bereavement, temporary estrangement, grooming, being used, abused and passed around like the last cigarette in a packet. Raised to the heavens when people wanted something from me, discarded the second I needed something back. The moment I ask for support, there’s tumbleweed.

I’m intense. I’m too much. I hold onto people, places and opportunities like my life depends on them. There’s an emotional honesty in me that is so exposed and desperate to be understood that it often leaves me stranded by the side of the road with no idea where to go next.

Part of me wants rescuing, nurturing, softness and safety. Another part wants complete submission and disappearance. Those things don’t fit neatly together. They defy categories, labels and easy explanations.

At various points, I’ve been the life and soul of the party, a disaster, a warning sign, a punchline and a project for other people to fix.

Mostly, I just feel like a grey cloud in the corner of the room. Like I drain people. Like I need permission to exist. I apologise for being and slowly wilt into the background.

All of the contradictions, all at once.

That’s why I’m tired.

But I’m still here.

And change is very much on the horizon. A marathon. The third and final year of my degree. The attempt to build a life instead of simply surviving one.