Despair

Happy fucking Tuesday my duderooooooos.

There’s a kind of despair that creeps in when you realise your parents will never really understand you.

It’s not their fault, not completely. They’re not bad people. They did their best with what they knew. But sometimes what they knew is exactly what’s holding you back.

I’ve tried explaining things calmly. With facts. With emotion. With patience. But it’s like shouting into a wind tunnel—they nod, they frown, they change the subject. And worst of all, they think they’re helping.

They don’t see the years I spent trying to fix myself from the inside out. They don’t see how many nights I spent pacing rooms, trying to stay alive. They don’t see the quiet, constant work I’ve been doing to rebuild a sense of self that was never allowed to fully form.

And I get it.

I do.

They were raised in a different world, with different fears. They didn’t have the vocabulary for mental health, for trauma, for spiritual breakdowns and breakthroughs. They had silence, and shame, and one-size-fits-all advice.

But what hurts most is this: If I can’t even convince the people who raised me that I know what I’m talking about—how the fuck am I supposed to convince anyone else?

That’s juvenoia. The fear older generations feel toward the younger ones. The belief that things are getting worse, not better. That the kids are reckless, lost, doomed. And maybe we are. But not for the reasons they think.

I’m not lost.

I’m awake in a world that keeps trying to put me back to sleep. I’m trying to grow in soil they don’t recognise. I’m trying to build a life with tools they weren’t allowed to use.

So yeah, today’s post is about despair.

Of course it had to be a Tuesday—because Tuesday has no feel. It’s like the off-brand cereal of weekdays. No personality. Just vibes. The perfect day for hopelessness to sneak in without knocking, wearing socks and sandals, talking to you about 'letting go of attachments' like some half-baked TikTok guru.

And then you realise—maybe you’ve heard that same advice before, just with incense burning and a less punchable face. Maybe we all become gurus when we’ve run out of explanations.

Not the dramatic kind.

The quiet kind.

The kind that settles in your chest when you’re trying your best and still feel like you’re screaming underwater.

If you’ve ever felt that—you’re not alone.

You're never alone.

Even then—you’re in good company.

And as I write this, I’m listening to Green Day's American Idiot. Or, better yet - American Romantic.

First album I ever chose for myself. Funny how things go in cycles. Like I’ve been trying to unlearn everything the world told me since I hit play on that CD.

Maybe I’ve just been rewriting that same song in different fonts ever since.

God I love my parents.

Talk soon – matt

look at that young romantic rebel