17 already??😩
November 12
Dear Diary,
Tonight, I’m writing through tears I’ve wiped away too many times. My hands are shaking as I hold this pen, and my heart feels like it’s been carrying the weight of a lifetime — even though I’ve only been alive for seventeen short years. Seventeen. That’s supposed to sound young and full of possibility. But to me, it sounds like too much pain for someone who hasn’t even finished growing yet.
I’m so, so tired. Not the kind of tired a nap fixes — I mean the kind of tired that sits deep inside your bones, in your chest, in your soul. The kind of tired that makes even breathing feel heavy. The kind that comes from pretending every single day that I’m okay when I’m falling apart.
I’ve become good at it — pretending. I know how to wear the smile that convinces everyone I’m fine. I know how to laugh at the right moments and say “I’m good” when people ask. I know how to nod when adults talk about how “easy” my age is. But behind that mask, I’m screaming. Silent, desperate screams that no one seems to hear.
Being the firstborn daughter means I never really got to be a child. It means I learned how to be strong before I ever learned how to be soft. It means I became the caretaker, the problem solver, the emotional sponge. I carry everyone else’s chaos while hiding my own. And when I’m the one breaking, there’s no one left to hold me.
Today, everything boiled over.
I woke up already on the edge — I barely slept last night because my mind wouldn’t stop racing. When I came downstairs, Mom was already angry. She yelled about the dishes I forgot to wash, about my attitude, about how I’m “always disappointing her.” The words stabbed deep, like they always do. Not because they were new, but because I hear them so often that they start to sound like the truth.
I stood there silently, swallowing my tears, because crying only makes it worse. And then I left for school with that fake smile glued back on, because if I don’t pretend, people start asking questions I don’t know how to answer.
At school, I felt like a ghost again. People laughed with their friends, shared secrets in corners, and I just… floated. Like I was there but not really part of anything. I wanted to sit with someone, to have someone look at me and see me. But the words got stuck in my throat, like they always do. So I ate lunch alone again, scrolling through my phone and pretending it didn’t hurt.
And then, during science class, the teacher called on me, and my mind went blank. Completely blank. My heart started racing, my hands got sweaty, and I felt so small. I heard a few quiet laughs behind me, and in that moment, I wanted to disappear. Not because I didn’t know the answer — but because I was so tired of feeling like I’m never enough, no matter how hard I try.
When I got home, Dad didn’t even say hello. He asked about my grades and shook his head when I hesitated. He said I “better not ruin my future.” And then he walked away. No “How was your day?” No “Are you okay?” Just pressure. Always pressure.
And now I’m here, writing to you, Diary, because you’re the only one who listens. You’re the only place I can be real. And the truth is: I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay for a long time.
There’s one memory that still haunts me. It was a night last winter the coldest night of the year. I had a breakdown in my room. Everything just hit me all at once the yelling, the loneliness, the pressure. I cried so hard I thought I might break apart completely. My chest hurt, my eyes burned, and I remember whispering into the darkness, “Please, someone, notice me. Please, someone, care.” But no one came. The house stayed silent, and I cried myself to sleep.
The next morning, I got up, washed my face, and smiled like nothing happened. Because that’s what I do. That’s what I always do.
Sometimes, I wonder if anyone would even notice if I stopped pretending. If I stopped smiling. If I just stopped trying. I wonder if they’d finally ask, “What’s wrong?” Or if they’d still only see the girl they expect me to be — the strong one, the quiet one, the one who never complains.
I don’t know how to keep doing this. I don’t know how to carry all of this and still be seventeen. I don’t know how to hold myself together when I feel like I’m made of cracks.
But even as I write this — even as the tears fall and stain the pages — a tiny part of me still hopes. Hopes that one day, I won’t have to pretend anymore. Hopes that one day, someone will sit beside me and say, “You don’t have to be strong today.” Hopes that one day, I’ll wake up and the weight on my chest will be lighter.
For now, though, it’s just me and you, Diary. Me a seventeen-year-old girl with tired eyes and a heavy heart, trying her best to keep breathing.
I’m 17, and I’m already tired of pretending I’m okay. But tonight, for once, I’m not going to pretend for you. Tonight, I’m just going to be honest — broken, messy, human. And maybe… that’s enough.
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