It usually begins with indifference. Not anger or sadness—just a quiet dulling of everything.

Then suddenly, the smallest things feel like too much—messages, voices, even warmth. They don’t comfort. They suffocate. They crowd. And when someone’s presence or their message arrives and I feel nothing—not even a flicker of curiosity, not even the faint urge to reply—that’s when I know. That’s my signal

I realize I’m no longer pulled toward anything. Not with curiosity, not with resistance—just a flat, floating nothingness. I stop looking up at the sky. I scroll for dopamine, not depth. When invited out (to an event, or a hangout), I begin turning down plans, avoiding conversations, and withdrawing.

Knowing when your body is telling you to pause and actually listening is crucial. There’s a sharp moment of awareness when I realize I’m no longer absorbing anything. I’m just enduring. That’s usually my cue.

It starts with numbness. Conversations begin to exhaust me. I catch myself replying out of habit, not presence. My responses feel rehearsed. I stop recognizing my own voice halfway through a sentence. I might laugh, but I’m not really there. I stop reacting. Not in any dramatic way—just… not at all.

Even the people I adore start to feel too loud in my mind—not because they’ve done anything wrong, but because I have nothing left to give. Not even the soft, invisible things like attention or tenderness. When my thoughts turn to noise (loud but empty)and even the people I crave begin to echo hollow, I know something has shifted. That’s when I feel static in my chest instead of fire.

The truth is, I don’t ignore people casually. I don’t leave anyone on read, and I don’t leave anyone hanging. I say what needs to be said. I care enough to show up fully—and when I can’t, I quietly slip under the radar.

So I step away, like a browser tab closing. I stop offering out of obligation or guilt. I refuse to give anything I don’t mean. I know I don’t have to be present for the world when I’m running on fumes. I let the silence in

Unplugging, for me, is a form of care. Not just for myself, but for others too. Because I don’t want to show up half-present. I don’t want to pretend closeness when what I really need is distance.

Let me be honest—it’s easier said than done. Unplugging isn’t always peaceful. Sometimes it’s disorienting. I feel more disconnected, sometimes even torn apart before I feel calm. I fight the urge to check the very things that drain me. But I remind myself: I don’t want constant access. I want aliveness. And aliveness often begins in boredom—not in being always available or endlessly scrolling for a flicker of dopamine, but in the stillness that follows the pause.

Right now, I’m here—but I’m unplugged. I’ve shut down the noise. I’m not available. No explanations.
The people who expect constant access never deserved it in the first place.
The ones who know me—they know my rhythm. They understand. They know I vanish not out of indifference, but out of necessity.
I need to reset before I burn out entirely.

So I write. Sometimes not to post—just to excavate. To process. Letting it out without dressing it up reminds me that I exist in some tangible form.

Writing is the only thing that doesn’t feel like a demand. It gives me space. It asks nothing of me. The world is on mute, and I let it be. No pressure to respond. No need to explain. Just stillness. Just me, moving quietly with my own echoes.

I can only write as I feel. My story is mine to tell—not for sympathy or applause, but because I prefer not to use gauze. So I write with flaws ripped bare until I feel restored.

II go to the woods in my mind. I curl up in bed and drown in a book so thick it replaces the noise in my head with someone else’s imagination. I binge-watch entire seasons of shows until the world outside disappears. Sometimes I clean obsessively, trying to scrub the chaos into order. It’s how I claw back control.

I take long walks without music. I watch the sky like it’s trying to tell me something. I sit on the floor, back pressed to cold tiles, just to feel something solid. I drink something I don’t even enjoy, just because it slows me down.

I start over in small ways—a new book, a new series, more sleep. Sometimes I do absolutely nothing. I stick to the basics—daily chores, work, and that’s all. I don’t always unplug to rest. Sometimes I unplug to detach, even when it feels sickening. There’s a difference. Unplugging isn’t an escape. It’s preservation.

I don’t unplug because I don’t care. I unplug because I care deeply. And I need to return to myself before I can offer anything real to anyone else. This is how I survive. I carry so much energy, yet I’m often drained by it. So I do this every now and then to reconnect with myself fully.

Because I’d rather lose touch with the world than lose myself in it.

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