I can’t do this anymore

Sometimes, there’s nothing to share except the truth of how things feel. No explanation. No perspective. Just a moment so heavy that even hope is too much. This is one of those moments.

I don’t know how to do this anymore. I barely move. My legs feel weak, my body dull. I’ve lost the connection to what always kept me going: nature, space, movement, silence. The things others call free time; for me, they’re survival. Unwinding isn’t a luxury. It’s a need.

But I’m stuck. Our vehicle, our little home on wheels, our only piece of future, is stored, cut off from our life. We’re not allowed to park it on our street, whereas everyone else is. In truth, WE are not really allowed anywhere.

There’s no place for us. Not really. Not the way we need. Here, where we’re forced to live – surrounded by noise, smells, judgment, and rules – there’s no room to recover. I hear everything. I smell everything I can’t tolerate. I see everything. And I can’t turn it off.

Even when I do nothing, I’m exhausted. There’s nowhere I can fully be. Nowhere I don’t have to fight. Nowhere I’m not reminded of everything I’ve lost. I can’t go for a walk without being overwhelmed. I can’t just go to the woods – there are no woods here.
Everything asks too much. Everything hurts.

I feel trapped. In my body. In this house. In this neighborhood.
In a life that keeps drifting further from who I am.
And I feel guilty saying that. Because I know people will say: “But at least you have a roof over your head.” Or: “Then just go outside for a bit.”

As if this is a choice. As if it’s laziness. Or weakness. But this is survival. Every single day. In a system that was never made for people like me. People who feel everything, hear everything, smell everything, see everything.

I miss who I am when I’m in nature. Who I am when I get to disappear into the wind, the grass, the rustling of leaves.
I miss my feet in motion. My heartbeat in sync with the trail.

And the worst part? I don’t see a way out. Even hope feels too heavy.
Except when I plan a trip; an imaginary one, with Mart and Fannar, just on paper. Then I feel a glimpse of who I was. Of who I might someday be again.

But right now… I can’t do this anymore. And I know I’ve held on for so long that people assume I’m strong. But I’m just tired. Not a little tired. Completely drained.

If you recognize yourself in these words, know this: There is nothing wrong with you. There is something wrong with the world that doesn’t know how to hold you.