The Winds of Fake Lives
Maybe I’m not interesting because I don’t perform a fake life.
Unlike celebrities and influencers, I can’t show you a life I don’t actually live.
That would be wrong. Ridiculous. Disgusting.
We are all human, and that’s exactly why we are fragile beings. We carry hundreds of problems—this is completely natural. As tempting as it may be to present ourselves as someone we are not, that is still dishonesty.

My Reality

A few years ago, I attempted suicide, and unfortunately, I am still living with many syndromes that began in my childhood. I’ve already talked about these countless times, so I won’t repeat them and bore you.
What I want you to understand is this:
I am still living a bad life. Even today, all I can do is try to survive. I have never tasted any emotion other than helplessness. My life is nothing but a vast emptiness where I have no value among people.
Even if I wanted to present the opposite in a fake way, I wouldn’t. First of all, my conscience wouldn’t allow it—and honestly, it would be complete nonsense anyway.
How painful it is that the lives admired by children and young people who are new to social media are mostly fake. They believe them to be real, without knowing how cruel life actually is. They don’t understand how deeply life can break a person, how helpless it can make them feel.

I Am Angry

To this day, I have never had even the most basic emotional needs or support that a human being should have. Especially my parents—so ignorant and uneducated that it would take pages of examples to explain.
Not my family, not my relatives, not my school, not even the place I grew up in—none of it was the way it should have been.
For example, before I turned 17, I wasn’t even allowed to leave my own neighborhood alone. The first time I was allowed out, it was only to go to school and come back. That was it.
My friends, my dreams, my choices, my beliefs, my hobbies—none of them mattered to the people where I was born. I had to live among them. I couldn’t change anything, and I couldn’t leave. No matter what I did, it never worked. Everything blew up in my hands.
I became so sad, so deeply depressed, that I never truly came back from it. This entire life caused psychological syndromes and lasting damage in my mind.
People who claimed to “understand” me only offered support if I walked the path they chose. Whenever I spoke about my pain, they brushed away their mistakes with sentences like:
“That’s how it was in our time!!!”
What’s the point?
I am still helpless.
May God damn them all.
Whatever is rightfully mine—may it be forbidden and poison to them.




I hope you understand what I’m trying to say.
If you weren’t born with extra luck—if your family isn’t wealthy, or worse, if they are ignorant, narrow-minded, and incapable of understanding—then you end up living a life very similar to mine.
So… what am I supposed to do now?
Pretend to be perfect?
Present myself as someone I’m not?
That’s not who I am.
I just wanted you to know that.