There is something I have written about before… dreams, and the strange way they stay with me.
It is a sad, sad thing that my dreams sometimes have the ability to control me.
Some days, I dream normally. Nothing unusual. And that’s fine.
Some days, I dream very bad things. And even that is fine.
But on certain days, something else happens.
Something small, random, ordinary during the day. Nothing important enough to remember, normal stuff, maybe feelings a little, but then I go to sleep. I take my medicines — the ones that have an anti-anxiety and sleep combination.
The idea is simple: calm my brain down, make sure I sleep, and make sure I don’t remember what I dream.
Apparently, my brain has developed resistance to that, too.
And then in sleep you slip into something else entirely.
You are not resting. You are fighting a war.
A war with yourself. With people. With situations where you feel inadequate, vulnerable, and unsure of what to do. Completely lost.
And that is so contradictory to the real life that I have built…brick by brick.
All my life, I have tried to be strong enough, independent enough, not vulnerable in front of people. And honestly, I have succeeded in that to a large extent. If you met me in person, you would never feel that I lack confidence or that I am struggling with something internally.
I have made sure of that.
I made myself well-equipped. I know how to earn money. I know how to manage finances. I know how to cook, clean, dance, and sing. I paint — not perfectly, but well enough. I write. I read. I know different languages.
But somehow all of that becomes meaningless when something suddenly shifts inside me.
And there is this quiet, constant pit in my stomach that tells me:
You are not enough.
You will never be enough.
And this is not something that started today.
It has lived somewhere in my bones for a very long time.
The first time I remember feeling it, I was five years old. That was the first time I heard that I was not wanted. That there was no need for me. Nobody needed me.
And as a child, the only way to understand that is to assume something must be wrong with you.
Over time, that feeling softened, largely because of my mother. She brought the world to me. She made me feel more than enough. Like I was the only person she needed in her life. She celebrates me even with my flaws and my mistakes.
We argue, of course. But love was never missing.
Still, that sentence — I am not enough — stayed with me.
When I was sixteen, I went from being one of the class toppers to suddenly flunking exams. And that feeling came back again.
Not enough.
So I decided something very dangerous at that age: I could never be bad at studies. I cannot afford to fail. I cannot afford to be bad at anything.
From that point onwards, I gave myself zero room for mistakes.
In college, I became a medalist in my graduation. A bronze medalist.
And instead of feeling proud, the first thought in my head was:
Why not gold? At least silver?
That was the moment I realised the real problem.
I am never okay with where I am.
Even if I reach the highest point, my mind will still ask why I didn’t reach it sooner.
Because somewhere inside me, I still don’t see myself as enough.
And yet, with time, I do overcome things. At different stages of life, I thought I would never get a job, never earn for myself, and never be able to handle my future.
Eventually, I did.
Eventually, I started earning. Eventually, I managed my own finances. Eventually, I realised I am capable enough to build a life.
But the ghost never really leaves.
It just sits quietly on your shoulders, waiting for the right moment to pull you down again.
And recently it came back.
I had a dream where I was not enough again, and this time, physically incapable compared to others. I saw myself struggling with a damaged leg, almost amputated, unable to function normally.
Honestly, the way my brain constructs these dreams sometimes deserves to be studied. The details, the direction, the realism.
But when I woke up, my back was hurting, and I was left with a strange question.
Do I question myself?
Do I question my brain?
Do I thank God for simply waking up alive?
Or do I just say — okay, I’m fine?
I genuinely don’t know.
What I do know is this: I handle things.
I always have.
But sometimes I just don’t know what to do with what is happening inside my head.
Sometimes I wish I could have been normal.
Normal without so many thoughts.
Without so many doubts.
Without so many questions.
Just normal.
So that there isn’t this constant ghost, this constant mind directing scenes in my sleep, this constant disruption of rest.
Some days it even makes me tired.
And maybe I could have accepted not being enough.
But having to prove every single day that I am enough …
That is the thing that slowly makes me question everything.
Maybe I will never be enough.
And maybe that’s fine.
With love,
Cynthia