FIXING MY LIFE, ONE BAD IDEA AT A TIME

Life has a strange sense of humor.

Or maybe I’ve learned to laugh before it gets the chance to hurt.

Whenever something serious happens in my life something that should demand silence, reflection, or grief I crack a joke. I perform. I act like I’ve rehearsed this moment before. And to be honest, I act well. People buy it. They move on.

But when the noise settles, when the audience disappears, there’s always a quieter voice left behind.

What are the possibilities to fix this?

That question doesn’t knock. It barges in.

My mind opens files instantly. Hundreds of them. Possibilities line up like witnesses in a courtroom some absurd, some brilliant, most useless. I replay conversations that already ended. I rewrite endings that no longer belong to me. I negotiate with time, knowing very well it doesn’t negotiate back.

And when it’s done, when every argument has been heard, the verdict is always the same.

Too late.

Nothing changes. The moment has passed. The damage is archived. All that thinking amounts to nothing but exhaustion.

So I do what I always do I start again.

From scratch.

I rebuild. Myself. My routine. My sense of normal.

People underestimate how hard that is. They assume rebuilding means motivation, or discipline, or willpower. But they forget one thing about me: I hate change. I cling to routine like it’s oxygen. I follow the same patterns for years. Even the smallest addition feels invasive.

Inside my head, change isn’t spontaneous it’s bureaucratic.

There’s an imaginary courtroom in there. Hearings are held. Evidence is submitted. Risks are examined from every possible angle. Only after endless internal documentation does something new get approved.

Now imagine something breaking.

The paperwork to refill that void is endless.

Ironically, I’m an overthinker who knows exactly how to stop overthinking. I’ve read the advice. I’ve given the advice. I’ve even believed the advice briefly.

That’s the cruel beauty of it. Knowing the way out and still choosing the maze.

So I design my days like traps. Tight schedules. Constant engagement. Physical exhaustion to silence the mind. Work spills into evenings. Friends, family, conversations, scrolling through reels like they might contain something important.

It works until it doesn’t.

Because night always wins.

At the end of the day, when everything is done and I’m still awake, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling—that’s when the real work begins. The documentation process restarts. The void clears its throat.

Sometimes I escape.
Sometimes I distract myself in ways I wouldn’t recommend, not daily, not proudly.
Sometimes I do what I know I shouldn’t.

And often I visit my scars.

I revisit memories like old rooms I pretend not to remember the layout of. I replay moments that once felt safe. I imagine new versions of them, even though I know they’ll never exist. Is it healthy? No. Is it honest? Painfully.

But it helps me sleep.

You might think this is self-destruction dressed up as philosophy. You wouldn’t be wrong. These are short-term solutions temporary approvals to keep the system running one more night.

The long-term answer is acceptance.

Such a small word. Such an impossible task.

Accepting that some things don’t get closure. That some versions of you don’t survive the year. I try. I fail. I try again.

Scars don’t disappear when you accept them. They stay. They mark you. And maybe that’s not a flaw.

Nothing in life is purely bad. Not even the scars.

They teach you to pause. To hesitate when someone new tries to fill an old void. They make you cautious, doubtful, sometimes unfair to yourself more than anyone else. You question your worth. You measure yourself against memories. You hesitate.

But you don’t run.

Because more scars will come. That’s inevitable. Some will cut deeper than the last. Some won’t matter at all. And maybe just maybe one scar will arrive quietly and heal the rest.

So don’t rush healing. Don’t bully yourself into moving on. Overthink if you must but act when you can. Even small actions count.

Life is strange like that.

Sometimes all you can do is laugh, carry your scars with you, and keep walking.

And for now, that’s enough.

-Stillwriting.