4/19/25 A Quiet Hollowing

“Why have you changed?” my mom asked during one of our occasional WhatsApp calls. It seemed like an innocuous question at first, but it stayed with me. I could see the wonder in her eyes, trying to understand what exactly went wrong. Why wasn’t I the person she had hoped I would become?

How could I even begin to explain what happened? That I am a product of a series of events, some that occurred after I left home, and some that began long before. I changed after reflecting on my childhood and realizing how abnormal it was. It’s strange how you only recognize that once you’re no longer in it. What feels abnormal from a distance can feel completely normal when you’re living it every day.

My overanalyzing mind constantly dissects my own behavior while tirelessly trying to justify the actions of others. It’s a self-destructive mechanism. And although I know how it manipulates me, I remain in a constant state of internal conflict. I may appear calm on the surface, but inside, there is an ongoing battle between blame and justification. My mind has become the battlefield.

How do I tell her that the most difficult thing that I do everyday is getting out of my bed and stand in front of a mirror. That I wish no one else sees what the person in the mirror is seeing. A phony man that couldn’t become a good son. An absentee who under the garb of pursuing his career has left everyone he cares for back home.

How can I tell my mom that I gave up a long time ago? That I no longer resist when someone asks for a piece of me. I’ve become indifferent to myself, handing away fragments of who I am. Each interaction leaves me slightly more hollow than before. With time, I’ve grown more detached. Nothing excites me anymore. Whatever task I’m given, whether related to work or not, once I complete it, I don’t feel pride or satisfaction. I just feel relieved that it’s over.

Spending extended time with people feels draining. Even when I try, I rarely find anyone truly interesting. By the end of most conversations, all I want is to walk away and disappear, to eventually live alone in isolation. That kind of escape probably requires a lot of money. I’m not sure how much of me will be left by the time I can afford that kind of life.

How can I tell my mom that this gradual surrender of myself is why I can’t have the kind of relationship she wants for me? The part of me that should be present for that kind of bond no longer exists. I suspect she blames herself. I wish I could reassure her that it has nothing to do with her. I’m simply not like my siblings. Inside, I am dark. I am ugly. No matter how much good is offered to me, I’m destined to push it away. Maybe it’s because of my pessimism, or maybe it’s just cowardice.

Yes, cowardice.

I’m too afraid to let go of the identity I’ve constructed in my own mind. I have traveled through so many emotional landscapes, endured countless encounters, given my all to others, and lost everything over and over again just to arrive at this conclusion about myself. The only thing I’ve gained from all of it is the knowledge of who I am. That knowledge is the only thing that makes any of this feel worthwhile. It is the only outcome.

And still, I’m terrified to put even that to the test. Because if that turns out to be wrong too, then it would mean everything truly was for nothing. And I would finally have to accept the one truth I’ve feared most of all: that I am a failure with nothing to show for it.