I Watch the World Sleep While I Decay

My mother—my beautiful, broken mother.

She tries so hard to be strong. I see it in her eyes, in her trembling hands as she holds the house together with what little strength she has left. Just like I try to be strong for her. For my sister. For this fragile life we’re clinging to like driftwood in a storm.

But the truth is, I don’t sleep anymore. Not really. I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll wake up and she’ll be gone. Just like my father was.
One moment here—then the next, just… silence.
A void that never stops echoing.

So I stay up and watch her sleep. I stare at her, hoping that in her dreams, she finds something gentler than reality. That in the quiet darkness, her soul gets a few hours of peace before the weight of life crashes back down again in the morning.

I’d take it all from her if I could.

All the pain. All the fear. All the silent screaming that never gets heard. I’d shoulder every burden if it meant she and my sister could laugh again, could breathe again without that tremor in their chests. I wouldn’t mind suffering. I’ve grown used to it. Maybe even comfortable in it. I think part of me has always known I was meant to carry the weight no one else could.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve felt like I was supposed to protect everyone. Even when I didn’t know what that really meant. Even when I wasn’t strong enough. The world never gave me that choice—it just handed me the responsibility, and I took it.

But now, I feel like I’m failing.
Failing them. Failing myself.

And the worst part is that I hide it well.

I joke. I laugh. I say the most random things in the middle of silence just to make people smile—even if it’s just for a second. Because maybe, just maybe, if they’re laughing, they won’t notice how quiet I really am. How broken.
Because if I stop talking, if I stop being the comic relief, they’ll ask questions.
And I don’t want them to ask.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to make sure my family never worries about me.
They see me and think I’m the happy one. The silly one. The kind, gentle one who wouldn’t hurt a soul.
But they don’t know that inside, I’m drowning in hate—not toward them, never toward them—but toward the voice in my head. The one that whispers that I’m not enough. That I’m useless. That no matter how much I love them, I’ll never be able to protect them the way I wish I could.

Sometimes I think—no, I know—that if someone offered me the chance to trade my life for my father’s, I wouldn’t hesitate. Not even for a second.
If my death could bring him back…
If I could be gone and he could walk through that door again…
I would do it.
Gladly.

Because he was the one who held us together. He was our shield, our light. He gave them something I never could—security. Faith. Peace.
I’m just noise.
Just tension.
Just… extra weight.

And I hate that. I hate being the one who burdens them, even if they never say it out loud. I know they’d deny it, but I see it. I feel it.

I’ve tried so hard to make something of myself. I studied for years. Worked through burnout. Made the Dean’s List, joined honor societies, got accepted into multiple graduate programs. I should feel proud. But instead, all of it feels like nothing.

Because I can’t even get a job.
I can’t even support my family.
What use is a degree when the fridge is empty and the bills don’t care about your GPA?

All I’m good for is thinking and writing. That’s all I’ve ever had.
And even that isn’t enough anymore. Not for me. Not for them.
It doesn’t feed mouths. It doesn’t buy medication. It doesn’t bring back the dead.

Some days, it feels like I’m cursed. Like I must’ve done something unforgivable in a past life to deserve this level of misfortune. Maybe my grandma was right when she called me a parasite. A failure. A burden. Maybe she saw something in me back then that the world is proving true now.

But still, I keep waking up.
I keep trying.
Even when I don’t want to.

Because as long as my mother is still breathing—still fighting—I have to keep going, too.
Even if it’s just one more day.
Even if I’m empty inside.
Even if the only thing I can offer is a tired smile and a dumb joke to make them laugh.

Because if the voice in my head ever wins—if I ever go through with what it wants—
I want them to remember me as someone who at least tried to make things easier.
Even if it didn’t work.
Even if it never mattered.

I just want them to have peace.
Even if it costs me everything.