Can’t I Just Be Fucking Pissed?

I got blisters under my feet from from playing basketball for three hours today. I had not played in a year. I’d once read that exercise was a good anti-depressant.
Fuck science.

I’m not standing on a chair with a noose on my neck. I don’t have blades to slit my wrists or pills to pop. I haven’t consumed any form of alcohol. Neither have I smoked. I’m not sniffing coke. Or eating marijuana to make my troubles go away.

I, Tchassa Kamga, of sane mind(?) and body(?), write the words you are reading. From my dark room where, this morning, my main light source in a premonitory style, blew up. As though to ice the cake I’ve been eating for the past month.

Up and Down.
The Machine Goes.
The smiles abound and the ladies frown.
Up and Down.
They do not know.
That the smiles I share are tears of a clown.

My parents care about me. They love me very much. Maybe they do not say or do the things I’d hope they will. Maybe they haven’t always seen the path I’ve chosen as the one I must follow. Maybe they don’t support my crazy ideas with blind faith like I’d love them to.

Who am I kidding? Who needs blind faith when the money isn’t mine to start with?

But I know they care about me. I really do.

I have friends. I even have a girlfriend. ( No, I will not write about her. Actually, I have. But if I tell you what her pseudonym is, I may have to kill you). I have people who trust me, love me, believe in me.

Today, a lady told me how amazing my writing was. She’s not the first person to say that. An older friend I respect very much said something similar at a gathering. Just like then, I had the same feeling in my chest- grief.

What is wrong with me?

Up and Down.
The scars go.
Dark with hate and broken youth.
Up and Down,
She didn’t know.
That “I’m fine” was never truth.

I miss the time when no one cared about what I wrote. Or what I said. Or my opinion. I miss the time when I was truly, anonymous. When my thoughts didn’t matter and my life was sad and lonely. I miss that time. Forcing myself to write even though no one in my family thought writing could mean anything, anywhere.

I know there is no way I can ever go to that. That “Tchassa Kamga” and “content creation” now have a similar future.

Is this fear? Or regret? They all seem the same to me. But I miss it.


I wanted to study African Literature. I was excited about it. A lot of my future hinged on the reading I was going to do. The authors I’d discover.

I got admission into the programme. Then, without explanation from anyone, it got deferred to 2017.

Fuck higher education in Cameroon.

No explanation. No statement. Nothing. My name is on a fucking list and I can’t study.

What the fuck is wrong with this country?

Then I spend Thursday, Friday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday trying to get my programme, the one I really wanted, switched to the second best option- English Language. And what do I get?

Because you didn’t do any language courses at the undergraduate level, your case needs to be discussed with the Head of Department.

That is just fucking great. Did I mention I had a 3.1 GPA?

Did I mention my internet Data bundle screws up all my work schedule? And that all the time I spend in school is literally me bleeding money out?

Up and down,
He buries the cloud.
Of trust and love and friendship loud.
Up and down,
In his mind he drowns,
the thoughts and laughs and loves not found.

During this switch, I made three new friends. We met each day from Thursday to today. In the beginning, it was fun, exciting.

Today, it wasn’t. And here’s the beautiful thing: to them, I was the same funny, smart talking, optimistic geek.

This positivity is draining. I don’t know what is wrong with me but I can’t keep it up for too long. Do I express everything? Do I repress the truth?

How can I live my life with all these things that pop up in my head? The things I think sometimes deserve to be in very sad, old, boring movies.

Sometimes, I really think I can’t do this anymore. I need to go away. Far away. No internet. Nothing. Just get under my blanket and stay alone.

Then again, my biggest fear comes reeling its nasty head.

What about potential bro?

What if I don’t achieve anything? What If I leave no legacy? I’m the first born son, what example am I showing? ( I recognize that this is probably residual programming from all the years I heard this from my parents)

What if I never publish? What if my podcast never gets good? What if Self-ish dies like all the other projects I took on, got lazy ( scared?) and let them die.

What if?

Up and Down 
The heart it goes.
The fear it flows from head to toe
Up and down 
The boy he knows
That time to time, this life will blow.

I don’t want your pity. Let me be clear. I don’t want you to feel bad for me. I have thought long about the things I need to be grateful for. The things I have that no one has. The opportunities, two eyes, hands to type, a brain, etc.

I get it, I’m blessed.

This is what I feel right now: fear, despair and grief.

This is what my heart is filled with. This , however, is not the entire truth.

This is what I have felt everyday for a long time. This is my natural state. The smiles, positive messages, funny words— those are my attempts to be normal.

To be happy.

And I don’t know why the fuck this is happening to me.

Because when it does, I can’t write. I can’t think. I can’t create.

I hate it.


I want to be happy. A lot of what I write is about this lessons I’ve learned. From mentors and from books. The way my life is better because of these new mentalities. How I’m such a happier, better person. How I have figured out the way to handle life and its troubles. How I am grateful for life. How I do the daily practice.

Right now, if you’re reading this line, then you know today isn’t one of those days.

And believe me when I tell you that you’re one of the few who know how fucked up I am right now.

I have probably crossed my normal limit for using curse words today.

I don’t care. I mean it. I really don’t.

What’s the point of all this anyway? ( Remember, I am not about to kill myself. There are people who have it worse than I do and who genuinely think that taking away their lives is the best way to solve this, I am not one of them. If you’re about to tell me how much you love me and how special I am just to make me feel better, chill. You don’t have to do that)

The only person who can help me right now is the person typing this. What I need to figure out now is how to stop this from happening again, and again.

Fuck depression. I hate how silly conversations trigger this mood. How I psychoanalyze things and project myself into a doomed future. How I can’t trust anyone to tell them how I truly feel.

How even the people I trust don’t get it that sometimes, you can’t help me. You just have to sit there and let me whine.

The truth is, I know that I am special. That my DNA is unique. My talent is beautiful. I should be grateful. Life is short. Yada yada ya.

I know that Kumbaya shit.

Can’t a brother just be fucking pissed?

Up and Down,
The tigers lounge,
In his mind and eyes his pain astounds,
Up and Down,
He paces round
Aware of the fuckery his hormones propound


Hi. I’m Tchassa Kamga and I love writing. I currently live in Buea, Cameroon. I host a podcast and I freeze stuff on Instagram. You can find me on Twitter,Snapchat and Facebook as well. Together my good friend C. Befoune, we started Self-ish where we share personal essays on self improvement, content creation and human relationships.

Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated Tchassa Kamga’s story.