Hello stranger,

I know that we have not met before, but whether you know it or not, we are alike, you and I. In many ways, we are different, which is a given—but this quiet burden we share brings us closer today. Writing this letter to you, as you might well know, feels similar to swallowing broken shards of glass (I can only assume, as I’ve not yet faced the displeasure of that experience).

It is easier to project a false persona than to let your sorrow show—what an unforgiving feeling, like January air against your naked, bare skin.

Now, I appreciate that this is for a niche group. Whilst you feel that you have very little give within you, the compulsion to conceal your internal despair drives you to continue the pretence. You haven’t completely let yourself go for that very reason. Displaying your vulnerabilities feels harder than allowing your exterior to reflect what you feel internally; all the questions and commotion would only drag you down further (if that’s even possible).

So, you’ve cleverly crafted this exterior of yours. No one has questioned you yet. To those closest to you: ‘you’ve been so awfully busy recently’. You use work, whether it is true or not, and you find something, anything, to explain away your recent seclusion. To your friends, you use family. To your family, you say it’s work. It is a little puzzle for you; you shift the pieces where they need to fit. Whichever answer will allow you to engulf yourself in isolation—a moment’s quiet is what you desperately crave.

You’ve perfected how to wear your smile. They can’t see that the first time you’ve eaten a proper meal or had a shower this month is when you came to meet them. It’s your little secret. The colours are bleeding—you are silently fading away. Meanwhile, your repressed rage knows only how to hurl harsh judgements your way. Luckily, your intelligence allows you to craft a near-flawless illusion: you are a controlled tornado.

Everything is grey. The sky can be big and blue; the sun tries to tenderly embrace you, and still, nothing. You know you ought to feel something; everyone else seems to be basking in this feeling, but for you, it seems to be that you aren’t deserving. You listen to your favourite musicians, the ones that would usually have you twisting around the house like a fool, yet still, nothing. That is the dead giveaway, the tell-tale sign. When the pleasures of the world provide you with neither reprieve nor joy—you know the black hole has come to call upon you once again. Hello, anhedonia.

You couldn’t feel more alone than when you are with people. Whilst, they speak a language you technically know, you couldn’t be further apart in understanding. They are in Doha, and you are in Santiago. At least when you lay hidden in your cave, it is obvious that you are alone, but when that feeling emerges around others, it emphasises how lonesome you really are. You are the odd one out.

You observe how some of them move so gracefully and effortlessly in conversation—extroverts have more fun. You laughed at a witty quip from one of them. You didn’t think it all that funny, but you laughed right on cue—you play the role so well. At times, you take on the role of comic; like a court jester, you occupy everyone with laughter so they won’t take notice of your surface-level smiles.

There have been times, weak moments when you thought to let down the mask a little. Soften up the façade. But the fear, the fear strikes. That friendly old beast, it’s only trying to keep you safe, you say. Your trusty little Doberman. Naturally, this means that all your relationships are skin-deep and superficial. Now you’re playing the role of confidant, affable listener. I’ll listen to you intently, ask you questions, and provide a little insight here and there—it works great! Phew. Today, you’ve dodged the ghastly ‘how about you?’ bullet.

You keep them busied with questions; they tend to like that. You fill all the silences. Pack in the gaps so tightly that there is no empty space between you two, no space for them to slip in and get too close.

‘I’ll be your mirror’ you say, like the song by Velvet Underground. You reflect the version of you they wish to see. The version of you they need to see. Any version of you, as long as it’s far away from the hopeless miser within.

Doting friend.

Dutiful daughter.

Diligent worker.

You have taken on so many characters and spent so long in costume that you hardly recognise yourself without the disguises. This is the danger of play-pretend. You could walk across the street from yourself, and you would not even notice that it was you who walked by. Fragments are what remain of you.

My God, they don’t see how good you are at this role. I’ll be the one to give you the Oscar you so deserve. You are so good, in fact, that when you finally plucked up the courage to raise your hand and admit that you were silently suffering, you were ridiculed. ‘You?’ they replied. ‘But you’re so well-dressed’. ‘But you’re so well-spoken’. ‘But you’re so well-educated’. You didn’t expect it, but your tool was wielded against you, the irony. That carefully crafted mask—it betrayed you. The black hole expanded, and now you’re on the periphery.

You have tried to help yourself a million times: tried the meditation, tried the books, tried the therapies, you tried until every bit of you was tried out. You think to yourself, maybe you’re not the type to get better. Your pillow knows you—it bears a secret history of all the silent tears shed. Your diary knows you—it bears a secret history of all the aspirations that have turned to ashes. But you don’t know you. You crawl into your bed like the coward you feel like; everyone is living but you. You are merely existing.

Everyone is lying but you! You see the world for what it is, not for what you wish it to be. It’s not you, it’s them you say. In the next breath, you try to convince yourself that, actually, you’re perfectly fine. You get up in front of the mirror and force a smile—see, that doesn’t feel too bad, does it? A change of scene might do you some good. For a brief moment, it does. You’re suddenly lit up with a newfound excitement—joie de vivre—living ain’t so bad, eh? But just as quickly as the flame was lit, it was extinguished. Left in languor, once again.

It tastes more bitter when you feel like this in the summer. It’s cruel, almost. In winter, at least, we’re all miserable together—cool compadres. During winter, the exterior matches your interior; there is no mismatch. The darkness clothes your imperfections. In the summer, it feels like a massive spotlight and camera crew are following you around—and who wants to rain on the sunshine parade?

I said at the start that we have not met, you and I. Only we have. You aren’t the only one in disguise. You’ve brushed past me in the supermarket. You sat beside me on the train. I treated your great-aunt at the hospital during her final days. We collided at Hotel Chocolat whilst you were buying a last-minute Christmas gift. You work with me—I sent you that boring email last week. I am your friend. I am your family. And, in the end, I am you.

Every one of us is on their own private island, so close—yet it is more than distance that separates us. The oceans that divide us are meant to keep us safe—until they drown us in seclusion. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy; people will never be there for you because you don’t afford them the chance. How will we see each other if we are all masked?

Once you’re inside the black hole, everything is distorted—you’re blind to it all. But I want you to see. I know talking feels pointless, like it serves no purpose. ‘I know what’s wrong with me, and talking won’t fix it,’ you might say. Your fears are real—that much is true.

And yes, it takes time and experience to figure out who is a safe haven and who isn’t. It’s not as black and white as you might hope. You can’t cut the weight in half, but if you’re going to carry it, you might as well share the journey—with some laughs and good company along the way.

What you lack is not self-awareness—it is self-compassion. You are here today, aren't you? You could have quit days ago, but you didn’t. That deserves acknowledgement. If you got up, washed your face and ate breakfast, that deserves recognition. And if you dragged yourself out of the house and made it to work, that deserves praise.

Sometimes, I feel as though it is the mad who truly see. How could one remain content amidst all this chaos—all of these unknowns? The sane are asleep, and you are awake. Your darkness has given you the ability to recognise this quality in others. As critical as you are of yourself when those around you share similar sentiments, you are quick to offer comfort. On this, I offer a short poem:

Pain can be transformed
In a beautiful metamorphosis
A hurricane can bring forth mountains
To which people surrender

Please don’t be so harsh on yourself; life is hard enough as it is without also making an enemy of yourself.

Till we meet again.

Yours truly,

Another stranger

Thank you for reading! If what I have written has resonated with you and you’d like to discover more of my musings, follow me on Medium and subscribe to my Substack for access to my full newsletter.