I write while standing in metro today(some part later at night), trying to piece together something for my monthly blog edition with exactly zero readers. I wanted to write about how July unfolded, but I'm not even sure that's the best thing to talk about. Not that I have anything else in mind either, to be honest. Life's been the same on the inside, even if it looked a little different on the outside.

For context, weekends these past few months mostly meant staying in—console gaming, doing a few things on the laptop, nothing too fancy. But July had its own plans. I ended up being out more than I expected—met people, old and new, watched a couple of movies, played golf, escaped a mystery room and earned a “Genius” tag (not that I needed external validation, but hey, I'll take it). There was a lot happening around me. But somehow, even after all the joy I experienced in those meetups, there was always this… aftertaste. That odd feeling that settled in right after—when the cab ride home got quiet(what's with cab strikes in Pune man, so freaking expensive), when the messages stopped pinging, when the room felt too still again. A dull ache in the chest that whispered, "What's the point of any of this?"

And I wish I didn't feel that way. Truly. Because it's got nothing to do with the people I met—they were all kind, present, generous with their stories and laughter. I was grateful to be with them, to be considered close enough to share a moment or two. But it's what happens after that gets to me. That slow realisation that even while I was there—smiling, laughing, talking and listening about their life and love and everything in between—some part of me was still holding back. Not out of pride. But out of protection. Like I've taught myself to keep a layer between what I feel and what I show. Just enough to not feel too vulnerable. Because joy, lately, feels like it comes with an expiry date. It's great while it lasts, but it just… goes away.

I then recently came across a new term while doomscrolling Instagram reels — "Functional depression". I remembered my teen years, back when I was 17, when I experienced depression but I wasn't woke enough to know that's what it was called. I just thought this is what people normally feel when they feel sad. Back then, when I took almost a year to find my footing again, I thought I will probably not experience any of that again, cause I knew how to come out of it. But here we are.

So here's how the reels I saw described it -

And this is exactly how I have been feeling since months now. Even now I am struggling to put across these words cause I really don't know how else to describe it. I am honestly so tired of making sure I don't bring the mood down, tired of playing the part of someone “doing well”, tired of keeping the inner mess neatly folded where no one can see it.

It's not about lying in bed all day or being unable to function. It's about doing everything you're “supposed” to—showing up at work, meeting friends, laughing at jokes, hitting deadlines—while carrying an invisible heaviness everywhere you go. Smiling on the outside while something inside quietly sinks. And somehow, no one really notices. Which is both a blessing and a curse.

The problem is, I have always struggled to ask for help from anyone. Even when I feel this way, I end up ignoring it, pushing it aside as if it's nothing. At times it's so overbearing though, like I remember the other day I saw another reel while commuting in metro and it just hit me so hard that I couldn't stop my eyes from welling up. A close friend told me back in December to reach out when it gets too much. I agreed with him then, I still do now. But I just… can't. I've tried, there's just so much that I can't bring out of my mouth that I just gulp it all in.

Eventually, no matter what, even if I ask for help, I would still probably feel hopeless any which ways. I told someone the other day that I was once a hopeless romantic at heart and all I am left now is the hopeless part. It's funny, though—if someone I care about felt like this, I'd go beyond my means to be there for them. But when it's me, I convince myself I can handle it alone. Pretentious a**hole.

I probably can though, I always have dealt with it after-all. Since the times I could feel anything, I have always ended up being the only one standing up for myself. And I don't really care what anyone thinks of me at this point, I have never begged for sympathy, and I won't ever. The entire point of writing this all was to just let it all out.

Anyways, since it's already so depressing at this point, might as well write down about a few painful goodbyes I have said in last couple of months. Dad decided to sell our Swift Dzire. It was an addition to our family since 2014, it's the car in which I learned to drive, it's the car which has given me so many happy memories. Sad part is, I didn't even get to have a last look or a last drive in it, it was gone when I was not even at home. And just like that, I tried to remember when was the last time I took it out, and how it turned out to be the last time I was driving it.

Similarly we also sold our Scotty Pept. The first vehicle of our family, bought back in 2006. Even that was a goodbye I was never really ready for. Another quiet exit. Earlier this year in February, I lost my bracelet. Just gone, no goodbye.

Things have been slipping away all year—some small, some big. And I've stopped feeling sad about it. Not because I don't care, but because I've gone numb. Suppressed emotions, detached responses, pushing things and people away as if it's nothing.

July, in its own way, was proof of that. On paper, it looked like one of my most “active” months in a while—more plans than usual, new places, new people, old friends, small wins, even a “Genius” tag. But beneath all that was the same guardedness, the same unspoken heaviness. I met people, but I never fully let them in. I enjoyed the moments, but I was already bracing for their end.

And that, I guess, is where this “functional depression” thing really sits—in the space between appearing fine and actually feeling fine. People see the smile and assume I'm okay. And maybe I even start to believe it myself—until I'm back in the quiet, and it all catches up again. There's a reason why I stay till late at work, there's a reason why I try to keep myself as occupied as possible, cause if I let my thoughts alone, it's done.

So yeah, on the surface, I'm doing fine. There's a lot I'm truly grateful for—please don't mistake this for ingratitude. I value the people, the moments, the little wins. But if someone really, really started peeling back my layers, they'd see it—the emptiness, the quiet void. And I hope no one reaches there. Not because I don't want someone to see past them. But because I'm not sure I'd know what to do if someone did.

Is this what we call living life in auto-pilot mode?

That's all for now.