used to this

I think I’m used to this

crying for no reason

feeling like there’s no hope left in this world

fighting inside for a reason to live

feeling ashamed that I don’t feel more reasons to be

 

i love listening to sad songs, because they tell my story, and it’s as though the people in it are trying to reach out for help too

but i hate listening to sad songs because certain words make me cry

words like happiness and smile and a wish and hope for a better tomorrow

I think i’m used to this

hiding my tears behind my hair

putting my face down because I feel vulnerable

trying to quietly wipe the tears without bringing attention to myself

because no one cries out like that in public

I think I’m used to it

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Healing is difficult, after all.

Some days are like today.

I’ve had so much planned, I woke up okay, ate breakfast, felt ok, and wanted to allocate lots of study hours for my last and final exam paper.

But come mid-day, I knew it was going to be another of those days again.

I’m not tired but I can’t seem to budge from my bed, and I fall into restless and short lapses of sleep. But even so, I can’t seem to have the energy nor the motivation to get out of bed and do something productive.

The tears well up hot in my eyes occasionally, but they don’t well out. They dry and return, a couple of times throughout the day.

A month to two weeks ago, I was feeling great, and I believed that I am finally, finally, taking bigger steps toward recovery. However, the slump came back once again.

What’s the reason? I ask myself all the time as well, because if there was one, I could fix it.

Like before, I just couldn’t find one. Does this mean I’m not looking hard enough?
.

.

.

.
If life was a game, I could die and reload again, and have another go.
If the world was a game instead, that’ll be great, because it hurts so much.
I need to heal my medic.

I blame myself who couldn’t be perfect.
Brake in my head, brake in my step, always.
I wanted to do well, I wanted to smile.
Damn.

 
– Jamais Vu

Alone.

This post is meant to be a healing one.

After this, I will try, my best, not to let my feelings continue consuming me for the rest of the day.

Perhaps because there is no right answer, but there’s so much to consider that I need to write down how I feel now, lest I forget.

Recently I’ve been learning how to deal with loneliness. It’s a funny predicament, isn’t it?

The loneliness is scary and hard to bear because there doesn’t seem to be a way out of it. What’s worse is that there’s no marker to tell me that things are not how it is, when my mind tries to be its own devil.

But I want to be alone. Countless times I’ve wished that I can disappear off the surface of the world. However, human connections are precious and important, and important people make life matter. So as not to bring harm to those people, it becomes a wish that I was never born at all. My mind tells me it’s better that way.

I don’t hate people, but I freeze up inside with anxiety when I have to talk to others, even those that I used to be close to. I know that in reality, these relationships probably haven’t changed. But the voice in my head tells me they did, which is why it feels like ‘I used to be’ close. It keeps telling me that these people find it irritating when they have to talk to me. That I have to stop being such a burden to others.

It’s so annoying, I’m annoying, it says. Fucking get a grip, it says. I can’t do that, it says. That’s why you suck, it says.

Life is so long, and I want to live it well. It’s precious, this chance to live, this chance to exist right now and figure things out with everyone else, because we are as lost as each other, and we are all here for support.

I just want to get better, am I applying the same twisted mentality to my recovery as well? The tiring part is maybe, not the ‘feeling better’. I can do that once in a while. The harder part is the feeling of sliding back into the slump I was in.

I’ve climbed two steps, but fall down three. When will it end? Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t have to focus on the end, but on the now?

I don’t know. Concepts, theories, advice. I nod at them, I understand, I try but they fall through. Does that mean I am not trying hard enough?

Why does it all seem so useless?

Incoherent post, well of course. As messy as my unsorted thoughts.

Let go. Let go of all these today, or at least for the next few hours.

Stop letting the demon eat you up inside.

everything goes.

I’ve just changed the title of my post.

naturally, I had typed it out as — ‘on days that I want to die’.

do people want to die because they want to, or do they want to because they want it all to end?

the pain, the shame, the self-blame, and the crushing disappointment, was it just a simple wish to end them all?

perhaps more aptly,
everything goes.

the pain that one is experiencing, excruciatingly, in this moment, it goes.
the pain that one wants to end forever, that too, goes.

we are all choosing just one way to make it go.
for some, there could be ‘better’ ways to make them go.
in terms we are used to, it’s called coping, instead of running.

coping isn’t more right than running, but it seems to be, because there’s lesser loss.

there are things I’ve come to realise
they come knocking in its raw entirety like a silent scream in the still night
the scream is in my head

it’s easier to cope when there’s a clear goal and an end,
it’s the way things go.
people don’t waste effort on endeavours that seem to go nowhere
what makes this illness evil is
it erases that goal for you
leaving no trace behind

wandering souls in a foggy abyss
it’s hard to explain why our eyes can see a fog that others cannot

I am proud of them however, everyone else, for they’ve built themselves minds strong enough
strong enough to keep the fog at bay
strong enough to keep them away from the abyss.

Their minds should be honoured.

for us, who wander and are lost
perhaps we are just clinging to the small cry of help
for the day we believe
that our minds can be honoured too

Chains

There is so much to say, but nothing quite fits the bill.

Many times, I used to think that words are the all-powerful tool of human communication. They convey deep feelings, tell stories of individuals. They draw tears, they make smiles. These days, the words are at the tip of my tongue, and like before, perhaps more than before, I swallow them whole.

I reject them with my entire existence, for they feel dry and incomplete when uttered, when written. Nothing quite fits the bill.

The incompleteness reminds me of how inadequate I am in understanding and explaining my own condition. The helplessness is forced inwards, and I kill myself a little more inside.

Can I say the truth? May I?

I’m afraid, because there’s nothing I can see through the fog.

I’ve come to realise something deeply, that there are two sides to everything — the before and the after. I was once in the before, before I was diagnosed, before I was paralysed, before I became numb, before I became empty.

During then, there were many before’s and after’s. They were felt at the turn of every event, big or small. The after’s were almost always wiser than the before’s.

With depression, it convinces you that there will not be a better or a wiser after. You are in the permanent and painful after, and for the first time ever, you realise the before had always been better.

It was that sort of condition that messes with your mind, the kind that makes you abandon yourself in a ditch, the kind that makes you look down at your fallen self and laugh, the kind that makes you believe that you fully deserve to be abandoned.

It was that sort of condition.

I have always been naturally inquisitive about understanding human emotions. I was glad when friends told me that I “understand them very well” and that I always seem to “describe their feelings well”.

I was glad to be of help to those important to me, to make them feel understood. That was something I had been proud of, that I could help lighten their mental burdens in some way or another.

The ironic thing is, that is the very same thing that is now chaining me down. My mental consciousness lives like a person separate from me, and it is poisoning me from within.

I look down, and the chains lead into the fog all around me. They are connected to the before, that now seems so far, and the after, that is even further. I am in limbo.

At times like this, life… it just feels painfully long.

until when do I have to live like this?

I don’t live because I can’t die, but I’m chained to something.
– forever rain; RM

Occupying space

We’re all here for a short amount of time in an infinite loop of time. Who’s there to see the start of time, and who will be there to see its end?

If it is true, that people live and die and get reborn, we might actually be living the entirety of time. Just different names, different bodies. Different stories, different lives. Despite so, one thing remains, this inescapable loop of life and death.

When given this short amount of time to live and breathe as this consciousness, this identity we own right now, how do we decide what we want to do with it?

Birth is not a choice, and death sometimes may be. When the world oversees death, it sees too many, too much. That’s why it moves on, a new day, a new life, like nothing has changed. Death is only shocking to those who have a short time in one consciousness, people occupying this space in this one time frame cut out of eternity. We get surprised, upset, affected, when someone chooses to end something already so short. It’s wasn’t theirs to begin, but it was theirs to end, and it wasn’t our place to say otherwise.

Yesterday, at 6am in the morning, another person left the world on the cold hard floor of the recently built learning hub in our school. The blue tent and blue tape were there the whole morning, and students milled about with hushed voices, wide eyes. What happened? He was only 22, male, a second-year student. What a pity.

Today morning I walked into the building, with a bitter lump of emptiness in the back of my throat. What was I expecting? More explanation perhaps, explanation for things that were already clear as day. We are always seeking explanations for things we can’t explain. For things that supposedly did not make sense. But it did, and always did. People feel things that makes sense to themselves all the time, not anyone else.

Maybe I expected that classes will be moved away for the time being because hundreds of students pass by the area everyday but how could that even be? There was no reason to wait, when the world has shown time and again that it moves on well, and quickly. I stared at the empty spot where the blue tent was pictured yesterday. At the dirtied, grimy and rough brown tiles. It showed no trace, it was cold, unfeeling, and un-telling.

The spot where someone took his last breath yesterday morning, lying on those cold tiles in the cold morning before the warmth of the sun, broken and staring up at the circular piece of sky. The last piece of sky. Today, everything is back to normal. Tomorrow it’ll be as well. Time will pass and the past will be buried along with everything else.

Someone once explained that the night appeared to be apt for leaving and saying goodbyes, because it’s the end of a day. An end at an end. The next day will come and a brand new day will start. A new start means new beginnings, means proper moving-ons without yesterday’s weight. That’s why goodbyes in the mornings, it’s uncalled for.

Maybe it was a silent protest, because there are no good times for goodbyes, and no good explanations for one that’s been brought forward before it’s due.

Living, breathing,
living.

Tomorrow will come and it will go, and time will continue to live carelessly, the way it has always been.

Only those who remember become trapped in the past, trying to find sense within the cold mad world.

They never quite get away.

 

4 months later, I became depressed

There, I said it.

I have to admit, my heart sank when I returned to this blog of mine, and read my last post before this one, the one dated in February last year, almost a year ago from now.

I was never one to re-read my old posts. Not blog posts, and not even my own personal diary, the classic pen to paper, tucked away in one corner of my shelf. It always felt painful to do so, probably because I always felt most compelled to jot down my feelings when they reach their most intense, and I had to get it out somewhere. And those intense feelings, they are extremely painful for me to revisit. That’s why I run. I run and still I run away.

Mindfulness has become a keyword of mine for 2019. I told myself that this year, I will be more honest, or try my best to be. I need to be honest to heal, and I need to stop running away. I know I have always been doing so, escaping.

You did well, the me from February 2018. You tried your best to fight your demons. From being aware of your insecurities, from silently screaming at those that tear you down, from fighting wilfully with the emotional logic of your mind. You did well enough then to protect your heart.

You did all you could then, in the moment of vulnerability, but yet, it was just as you said. There were only two outcomes. One that builds you up at the perceived end, and one that tears you down.

Unfortunately then, you believed that you would be strong enough. (And I really want to give you a big big hug for being so brave.) You recognised the unexplainable fear that clenches your heart when you think of the unpredictable end, and you tried to fight, but it happened anyway.

Four months later, my mind was torn apart, and I became clinically depressed. My emotional logic turned against me, and it made me an empty vessel. It was even hard to pen down my thoughts the way I used to. I lost my ability to fight and make sense of the unknown and resigned myself to live with a reduced state of my own mind. It was like the light switch in my life turned off, and disappeared to a place that I can no longer find.

Sometimes I wonder if there were signs all along, signs telling me that I should take better care of myself, before I was shoved into and made to live in this dark abyss of my own mind.

These past few months weren’t easy, nothing made sense. Was life always this hopeless? This questioned plagued me everyday. I knew that it wasn’t, in my heart, but I underestimated how tough the fight is, when your opponent is yourself. When your own body works against you.

Everyday I try to convince myself of the better, and everyday it resists. This journey is long – I can tell – I see the bricks of the path I need to take laid out before my eyes, under my nose, and everyday I take a small step forward.

In the distance however, the bricks fall away, and I can’t see where they lead. It seems, the fear and the unknown never goes away. It stays, far in the distance, but close enough to remind me that I can’t be careless.

I’m lost, but still I try. It’s getting tougher to do so, and I find myself wishing everyday that things could go back to the way it was, to a time in the distant past when it was easier to try. I had taken that time for granted, for the past 21 years of my life.

Paralysed

It’s funny how one can take an excruciatingly long period of time to slowly lay out the bricks of the wall around the heart – not a wall to keep others out but a wall to keep it alright – only to have it seized in the briefest of encounters, leaving it completely paralysed?

What was I building it for again? What was causing hurt, from the outside, from the inside, that this wall had to be painstakingly built? I come to realise all of a sudden, that I don’t know anymore, I have been stripped of my thoughts, my mind is blank.

When fear seize me, I get paralysed. I get paralysed before I realised it did – that’s how I find out.

Find out that my insecurities are once again forced to rear its ugly head before me.

I thought I was getting better while I built that wall, it felt safe, like I was making progress trying to become better. Turns out, I have only been burying them.

Is burying them so wrong? – I feel the urge to scream this out loud. Proving not to anybody, proving even less to myself.

Deep down, deep down. A voice tells me “you know it is wrong. Isn’t it obvious? You need to face it not bury it.”

I know, god dammit I know.

And yet.

I had to bury it because I couldn’t face them fast enough. When has taking your time to overcome your fears felt so wrong, simply because the world does not wait for the hurt to heal?

I buried it because I wanted to run, because I needed to move forward, because I am eager to move ahead. I was determined to move ahead despite the paralysing fears, because that meant progress, right?

That made me feel alright. I believed I was making things better, that I was taking steps.

I wish I can explain but I don’t understand this fear.  It frustrates me that it paralyses me so – why is the will of the mind no longer the only strength needed to overcome things?

I am willing so hard to get over this, to feel better, to not let my insecurities define me. I gathered the strength I needed in pieces,  from family and friends, from music, from the little things around me that are amazing and wonderful and yet, they aren’t enough.

I wish I can have time, but time is a luxury.

I have expectations placed on me, and deadlines upon me, and that impending unchangeable time scares me. Time is not definite, and was never so, but deadlines made it so.

Walking towards the end of a perceived and made-up end, there can only be outcomes – one that makes me feel better, and one that crumbles me further.

I know I should face the potential failure. This is not me being pessimistic, but acknowledging that it could happen, and I want to scream out loud that I will I WILL, as though vocalising it makes my will stronger. I just need time, I need time.

To the person giving me deadlines, you have your pains, I don’t blame you. We are all answering to different callings in our lives. I really want to help you do your job, I do, but I am not okay, I don’t feel okay, and is it not okay to admit when I want to call a break, when I want to make things slow down as I try my best to do the best that I can, for myself?

I can’t explain all these to you, my heart is a mess, my thoughts are incoherent, but among all these, a lingering constant stays, the paralysing fear that aches outward from the middle of my chest. I feel it strongly even as I try to explain something that I cannot quite figure out…

I wish I can give you a glimpse, I hope you see that I really want to help, even as you repeatedly plead for me to help. You tell me “please”, “please” and “please” again, but those six letters, do you know its stakes, its stakes on me?

Do you know the pain it causes me, when I want to help you and would die to be able to will myself to be in a good enough condition to help, without hurting myself further? You see, you just need something done, and anything will do, either of the two outcomes. You will tell me, you did great. It was great, what are you even talking about? (You would have been great from the beginning)

But no,  you wouldn’t understand, that there’s a 50% chance that I will be broken into a state further from repair, and I’m afraid.

I’m afraid because if this is how I feel now, how will I deal with the me then?

Is it wrong trying to protect myself? In an indefinite entity called time, is it wrong to want more to myself to become better? Can you not give me more?

You don’t know the stakes. You really don’t…

Running Past.

I loved reading romance novels, and because I knew all of their scenes – the realisation ones,  the confession ones, the heartbreak ones, and always always, the reconciliation ones, I thought I knew what love is.

It feels… strange. It’s okay, that’s love.

It feels… uneasy. It’s okay, that’s love.

It feels… occasionally happy. You see, it is love.

It feels… sad. It’s okay, it’s all part of love.

I have been running away from my thoughts for so long ever since the story came to an abrupt stop, that I am no longer sure the remaining ones that seep into my head in times of blankness even reflect the truth of what happened.

After all, things slip out easily when you allow it to.

I thought I tried but apparently, maybe I didn’t? It still feels selfish to allow myself to leave unscathed.. is that even possible?

It is not easy to constantly feel like you are giving, it drains the soul and tires one out. The strength that usually allows for this to happen is also slowly disappearing.

What am I doing?

What are we doing?

I thought I knew.

Know that I do wish you well, but stop saying the words: I hope we can continue being friends.

It hurts and you know it so I hope you stop –  because I am running away.

I’m not as great as you are, and I have realised recently that you were right. I can’t stay friends, you can, and I wonder why’s that?

You have always been a mystery and I guess that is why it all began.

I know it does not mean that you are not hurting, it just means you are trying and so am I.

I am selfishly trying to move on, in my own life where I still try to pretend everything is okay, while it tears away at me inside,

it’s ok.

You say I say this too  much, and I’m sorry, this is the only way I try to deal with things that become too much for me, I try to make myself believe in what I can say at least.

“You say you’re going to love me, what use is it? You don’t know what kind of heart you gave me.

As much as you were lonely, I really hope you meet someone, who will love you more than you, I’m sorry that she’s not me.

It’s not easy to give.

Just like you said, will I ever receive love from someone who is like me?”

 – Ending Scene, IU

Continue the way you were, please, and stop trying to reach a me who is running…

running away.