MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS: A REGULAR IN PURSUIT

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS: A Regular in Pursuit  Written by: Janna Real DeLeye

At some point in my life, my mind would wander into things that never actually happened, and I found myself drowning in those thoughts. I would knock on the door of those ideas in the middle of the night on my rest days, wanting to rest in what life might have looked like if they had been real. It felt like an escape from my reality because deep inside, I felt lonely and tired of fighting my battles. I found myself grieving things that should have stayed in the past, yet I kept imagining a future with them—filling in gaps that never truly existed but seemed to promise something better.

I often think about disappearing and starting a new life where no one knows me. In that life, I wouldn’t be afraid of what’s to come because I would have chosen it for myself. I think about both the future and the past so often that I forget to live in the present. As a result, I struggle to build connections and communicate with others. The truth is, in those overwhelming thoughts, I lock my doors when life crumbles because I don’t want to become a burden. But as human as I am, I wish I didn’t have to go through it alone. I wish someone understood the depth of my wounds without me having to explain them. I wish someone would tap my back and remind me that it’s okay to be afraid when things get complicated and out of control. Yet somehow, I just couldn’t—and still can’t.

There were days when I ran and escaped, but in the back of my mind, I wondered if I should have stayed a little longer—been more patient with my growth. Maybe I should have lingered with a cup of coffee in that restaurant, hoping the table would fill and I wouldn’t feel so alone in the battle of adulthood. But I disappear too soon, and now I grieve those moments. What if I had stayed? What if I hadn’t left? What if I had convinced myself that there are good parts in simply enjoying the moment instead of constantly looking outside and thinking of leaving the diner?

Growing up, I always felt like I didn’t belong in a crowd, a team, or a group. Yet people formed groups as if it were the standard way of living, and I couldn’t even fathom what it truly meant to belong. Even as a child, being part of a group felt like a nightmare. Perhaps what scared me wasn’t the fear of underperforming, but the fear that someone would notice I couldn’t blend in or synchronize well. That someone would see I didn’t stand out despite my efforts because there was always someone better. That I was a color they didn’t quite know how to place. I feared that before I could even explain what was wrong with me, people—the audience of my life—had already figured it out behind my façade. Even now, I am still afraid that if people truly get to know me, they’ll realize I’m better off alone—and that they are better off without me.

I don’t like involving myself in activities where my little secrets might be exposed—not because I’m afraid of looking foolish, but because I’m afraid I’ll mess things up. I prefer watching from afar rather than being pulled into something I can’t keep up with. Even with instructions from an emcee, I struggle to follow and comprehend fully. My mind plays games with me constantly, and I can’t always focus on what’s right in front of me. I fear people will discover that my childhood was rough and that I didn’t get to enjoy it the way others did. The instructions I grew up with were about responsibility, not play. I’m afraid that in any group, I’ll be the reason things fall apart. I’m afraid people will discover this is just my alter ego. I’m more afraid of being seen and criticized than of being misunderstood. I’m afraid of being judged for my choices. Afraid of being seen as fragile. Afraid of being pitied.

I don’t like pity. I loathe it. I despise when people feel sorry for my roots or for who I’ve become and then treat me differently because of it. While my heart may appreciate the kindness, my mind questions every intention—whether it’s genuine or not. I also hate when I do something sincerely for someone and they ask what I want in return. When I say I want nothing, they try to repay me anyway because they don’t want to feel indebted. I did it from a genuine place, yet it becomes transactional. Maybe what I truly hate is how my thoughts spiral into other thoughts. I hate the way I sometimes judge people too quickly. I hate how my mind works, and I fear no one could ever handle it.

In these moments, I feel myself fading into darkness. I lose interest in things that once consumed me. I sit in corners instead of beside someone. I give silent treatment. I pull back even when I want to try. I question my intentions and my place. I begin to notice differences I hadn’t seen before. I end things before they’ve truly begun. It’s not that I’m not serious—my insecurities just pile up and give me reasons to withdraw. I want things to be slow-burning—not because I am slow, but because timing matters. If someone else knocks on his door and he opens it with ease while he struggled to open it for me, then that’s my answer. I am done. Not because I wasted time, but because I wanted to understand the weight of my chances. I don’t want to choose someone simply because he is there at the moment. I want to choose him because I am certain—not because I am afraid of being alone.

Oftentimes, in romance and friendships, I disappear when things feel overwhelming. I have never settled in one coffee shop or one group. My friendships feel seasonal. When my mind is in turmoil, everything around me becomes blurry. I often leave people I don’t see a future with—but the ones I want to keep somehow leave me first. Now, I find myself walking alone on the outskirts of town, wondering: if I had been more integral, would I still be alone? Deep inside, I truly want to open up and be seen. Yet before anyone can leave me, I disappear first—whatever it costs.

Despite all this, there are moments when I want to stay still in a restaurant or coffee shop and become a regular—not someone temporary. I want to remain in the moment instead of looking for the nearest exit. I want to stay because I am no longer a hopper. I want to talk about my wounds and scars because I am no longer a floater. I want to commit to my intentions and free myself from the baggage I carry. I am no longer on probation. This is not a trial.

This time, I am a regular in pursuit.