I’m just tired. I don’t even know why I’m writing this.
I’m exhausted—mentally, emotionally, physically. I feel depressed, hollow, and unsure of what the future even holds anymore.
Twelve years ago, I lost my big brother to suicide.
It was the night of my 22nd birthday. Around 2 a.m., I woke up to the most gut-wrenching scream—my father calling out my mother’s name. I was in a deep sleep, but that scream still echoes in my head. Even then, I somehow knew something terrible had happened. That moment shattered our world.
It took me years—years—to crawl out of that darkness. To this day, I don’t celebrate my birthday. It just brings me back to that night.
Back then, two best friends helped me through it—one male, one female. That female friend eventually became my closest support system. We fell in love. We’ve now been married for seven years.
Shortly after my brother’s passing, I almost lost my father to a massive heart attack. Miraculously, he survived and is healthy now. But the fear of losing him added to the pain.
Then after marriage, one night my wife suddenly experienced immense pain—her left ovary had to be surgically removed. That too, happened on my birthday.
It felt like the universe was confirming a cruel idea I had started to believe: I’m the bad apple.
Doctors advised us to try for a baby sooner rather than later, but we weren’t ready then.
We eventually moved to a foreign country. After about a year, we decided to try. We had no idea it would be this difficult. One year passed—no pregnancy.
I went for a sperm analysis and was diagnosed with male infertility.
We were shattered.
I’ve always been overweight, but I took it as a challenge. I joined support groups. I stopped drinking. I quit smoking. I became a different person. At one point, I was taking 10 different supplements a day, just hoping to fix myself.
Fast forward one year—I lost 25 kg. My sperm quality improved.
Two weeks ago, we got a positive pregnancy test.
It was magical. It felt like life had finally started to turn around.
We couldn’t believe it. My wife tested four times in three days to be sure. We were finally pregnant. We told our parents and recorded their reactions—pure magic, tears of joy.
But… it happened again.
Last Sunday afternoon, I heard that same kind of scream I heard 12 years ago.
This time, it was my wife.
And I couldn’t move. I didn’t have the strength to get up. It took me 30 seconds to force myself out of bed.
She was in the bathroom, crying in shock. There was blood.
We rushed to the ER.
It was an ectopic pregnancy. The doctors said she’d need surgery—again.
Four hours of waiting. I wasn’t allowed inside. I just sat there outside the hospital, dying a thousand deaths every single minute.
I couldn’t stop thinking: What if something happens to her? What would I do? How would I live?
Thankfully, the surgery went fine. She’s safe. But I haven’t slept in five days. Right now, I’m lying in bed. It’s past midnight. I’m just… tired.
I’m tired of being “the strong one.”
Tired of pretending to be okay.
Tired of holding in my tears around my wife, around my parents.
Tired of trying to be the man everyone expects me to be.
I just want my wife back home tomorrow night.
And tonight… it’s just me. Alone. Heartbroken. Numb. Exhausted.
If you’ve read this far, thank you.
That’s it. That’s all I have in me tonight.