Autopilot

Life gets busy.
Sometimes so busy that it feels like you don’t even have time to breathe.
You run from one thing to the next, ticking boxes, completing tasks, keeping it all together.
You stop being present — and start living on autopilot.

I’ve done it.
I’ve lived so much of my life on autopilot.
Through the boring days, the painful ones, and even through moments of happiness.
Because when you’re moving fast, you don’t have to stop.
And if you don’t stop, you don’t have to feel.

Some people live like this because they have no other choice — there aren’t enough hours in the day.
But some of us?
We choose busy.
We choose chaos.
Because the alternative — sitting with our thoughts, facing our feelings — feels unbearable.

Before I went into hospital last year, I filled my life with distractions.
I did everything I could to avoid myself.
And when I finally stopped…
Everything I’d been running from came crashing in.
It was overwhelming.
I didn’t know how to deal with it.
And I completely fell apart.

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The Slowing Down

Since coming home, I’ve tried to do things differently.
Slowing down hasn’t been easy — but it’s been necessary.
With the help of my mum, I’ve made space to sit with my feelings.
At first, it was terrifying. Exhausting, even.

And sometimes, I still find myself slipping into old patterns.
I keep myself busy.
I offer to do things for others.
I fill my days with tasks — part of it is genuine, but part of it is still about not facing myself.

But here’s the difference now:

I notice it.
I recognize what I’m doing.
And slowly — even if it’s hard — I make the choice to stop, to feel, to face things head on.

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The Bigger Picture

There was a time when my coping mechanisms were dangerous.
There was a time when I found peace in a bottle of vodka.
When I used substances to numb the pain.
When I gambled to feel joy — only to lose more than money in the process.

That version of me was hurting.

But today?
Today I am someone who no longer does those things.
I may still run.
I may still distract.
But I also return.
I return to myself.
To the hard truths.
To the feelings I once feared.

And that — in its own way — is healing.

Not perfect.
Not easy.
But real.