It's been a rough week.
Perhaps it was the congenital dread tied to the commencement of a new week. Sunday nights are a very dangerous time. The following two days were in similar pursuit: my mind trying to wrestle and take me down. It succeeded, for one.
What sparked it all: an unfortunate moment of realization.
I don't know if it's the late nights that imbue me with an incurable plague of sadness. I don't know if there's genuinely something wrong with me. I don't know if it's me at all, repeatedly nursing and gashing these wounds. I don't know a lot, and I am trying my best to find the answers for myself.
Then it hit me. All the things I thought were a part of me were perhaps a separate entity on their own; the part of me that tried to tear me down was doing no good for me. I needed to peel those parasitic layers away, because the feeling was multiplying - and I, in turn, was becoming the host for its torment. Yet it was hard to distinguish when it was eroding me.
I've worked out the triggers: the sensing of unresolved issues, noise, idleness, obligation, school... I know, they aren't the cause. They drive things into worse ground but they are not responsible for my hardship. It's all on me. I'm responsible.
I know I have a support system when I need it, an excellent one at that - yet the
There's a lot that I wanted to let out on those nights. I had it all written up, sitting obediently in my drafts. Does it really have to be said? I question myself every time I spill.
But for the purpose of this being one of my safe havens, I want to share my lowest point. I know I am not alone, no matter how much my brain convinces me during those times. In revealing the weakest side of me, I urge those suffering to seek help.
***
I've had a problem. I never knew it was problem. I thought it was just in my nature, my character - for the longest time. I didn't think I needed to change. I was who I was. 'I am who I am,' was the mantra.
I stay true to myself, I have a self-esteem, I treat myself.
What's the problem then?
I'm neurotic. I want to say I am not ashamed of it but I am. I am ashamed of how I think so much. I'm a big believer of moderation, so it's never new when I'm always advised 'Don't worry too much' or 'Try not to think about it'. Honest, I tell myself that too. But I don't follow my own advice. I'm guilty as hell of that. No one ever says anything about it being okay to be emotional by nature, to be hypersensitive.
I'm scared the stigma attached to mental health will send people in the other direction. (I'm a huge advocate for it but when I realised it well and truly concerned my own wellbeing, I was so overwhelmed. 'I have to tread lightly. I have to be careful what I say, to who.' I remember telling someone last year. It was a huge step. She looked at me with doubt. 'Are you sure? You don't know look like someone who could have a mental health disorder'. It felt like a punch. It hurt a lot. That stuck with me. I believed it. I withdrew myself from the idea.) By people - I don't mean the people whom don't know me, but those who do. Those who think they do, those who I love and can't bear to lose.
The perceptions that will change. I've already lost sight of which thoughts are really me, and if others' were to change, I'd be kept in the dark. No one would know, not even myself.
Losing people is something else altogether. I am swimming in my own mind without end. I'm out of my mind, literally, whenever I even as so much talk to someone. Being caught up in the currents, I'd do anything to grasp onto a lifeline. It provides me with temporary relief.
We're basically told not to give a shit. Time will heal wounds. But. Is there advice about stabbing yourself and deepening your already inflicted wounds? Who do I turn to when there is no one at the time, but myself? Does anyone give a shit then?
I do. And I'm sick of infinitely feeling this way.
...
...
Let me first talk about why I love music so much. It fills the silence, instead of what would be my pool of thoughts. It is the only constant in my life. I'm in harmony with the melodies, every riff, and every drum beat. I know them well. I know they won't disappoint. (I mean, my immanence really is equivalent to uncertainty.) Hence, I cannot live without it. Music is what keeps me in a steady place.
Second of all, I'm a people person. I rely on others - full stop. There's no way two ways about it. This is the most terrifying thing to admit. I've been told I'm independent in some aspects, but personally I know I am more inclined to being dependable.
I get so scared of my mind. When I get to this point, I want to lock myself away. I want to run. I want to evade everything. I want to shut out the world. I don't feel like I can face anyone - especially the relationships where it's all surface, and no substance. I harbour hatred for small talk. I harbour hatred for how reliant I am on those I love. I harbour hatred for worrying them. I harbour hatred for not who I am, but how I am. It's a helpless place, and I'm descending further into the abyss.
At this moment, I am set right to implode.
I have attempted to track my mood patterns. They're always a stiff climb and during manic episodes, I am unstoppable. That is, until my mind drags me back down again. I wallow in that same old pit of misery. It used to go on for days, months. They only make an appearance periodically now. I have also retraced my own timeline of thought, through posts dating back to 2011. It's insane. I look back at something I wrote over two years ago and I can feel exactly the same as I did then.
I am trying to help myself.
No matter what, it ends up in failure.
***
Thankfully, I am feeling better now. I've been unstable, of course, but when have I never? I know I can cope, I know that in this frame of mind I'll be alright. I have sought out the people who are always there for me. I've had my share of outbursts, love and support, and the tears which had been suppressed for so long. Now I know exactly who I need to see.
I'd been afraid of what was always wrong in me. It was a manifested web I'd fallen victim to. I'd become oddly comfortable with it. Maybe if it eats me, sure death will be near. It will all end. I'd foolishly allowed it to consume me. I'd declared myself prey. Not anymore.
(It's funny. People are more alike than I think - especially those closest to me, whom I'd never suspected would feel the same. It's hit me with blinding astonishment, and startled me in ways. I'd begun to feel ashamed. I'd begun to feel more clarity. I'd begun to feel like it wasn't the end, for the first time. Letting it out was what I needed all this while.)
Now, onto the next step: to get back on track.
Time to fix myself, to take the determined road to recovery.
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