I haven't worn clean clothes in months, couldn't be bothered to wash any this past half year.
And no I am not. At least in the sense that I live in a house, I am not homeless. Not any more.
The same cannot be said for my homeless heart. It cannot be said for the war raging in my mind-fields, the running battles of my sanity. It cannot be said for this crippling feeling creeping through my bloodstream from all the cold side-glances and death stares; all the stink eyes I feel these imagined stinkers training on my back.
I used to love writing. Reading brought me joys like no other form of pastime ever could.
Literature was the one tonic I had on standby to defuse the toxic mines that often waylay my mind.
Lately, and lately is perhaps a safe word, I find myself at a loss. It's not so much what to read or write; I have at my disposal more books than I could ever make it through in a lifetime, and a few more lifetimes worth of writing I could put my quill to.
It's the whys and wherefores that escape me. Reading, and indeed writing, has lost its taste in me.
Am I saying anything different from what's out there? Is anyone? Better yet, is any of what's already out here, what's sensible and sensitive at least -- be it my own or otherwise -- proving at all effective?
Yet there's always more to it. It's never quite as simple as that. It's not that I am never happy even at my most depressed. The real challenge is always in staying happy. Not finding a reason to smile, but finding reason in a smile.
At my most manic, the conflict that becomes of the contradictions we come to naturalize into our convictions barely fazes me. My days are spent vigorously moving forward, sailing over depressive interlude after the next.
These contradictions are relentless, though.
With every mile I run the steeplechase, they hoist the barrier a notch higher, and I begin to sense that I will eventually land face first into the water jump passage.
Yet that knowledge, knowing how close my hand is to the self-destruct buzzer, does little to stop its eventuality.
Gradually it becomes inevitable. Pretty soon my revolving door of hobbies hinges on sleeping and disappointing everyone close to me.
Disappointing myself is the only job I seem to excel at.
For a few days I will try, in vain appreciation of what's coming, to steady the ship. Or at least, to not rock the boat. Guilt-riddled days turn into seeking nights, finding precious if short-lived pleasures in the escape of silent apathy a good Series provides.
And then another. Just one more episode...
Night turns to day as avoidance becomes an effortless art. My tethered mind is now vast uncharted territory, fast emptying of all hope. It's such a big place; spacious rooms infinitely supplied with shame and regret. I tell myself that if I can hold fast to my steadfast passions then we won't get lost.
Only the colour fades off them too, and they no longer stand unwavering in deep seated support of my sundered soul. Questions replace certainties in my resolve of who I am; doubt clouds my conviction in what I believe; deep down I feel broken, disconnected, defective - surrounded by the happy continuous illusory perfection of friend and foe.
Ridiculous, I should know, these thoughts. I have known. I want to get back to knowing, for the life of me. Perhaps it's time to take that pill, lull the good with the bad altogether and just be 'normal.' Just perhaps, I need it more than I need my personality untamed.
Independently shackled.
Untainted.
Blemished.
Or do I?
I used to love writing. Reading brought me joys like no other form of pastime ever could.
Literature was the one tonic I had on standby to defuse the toxic mines that often waylay my mind.
"[N]ow my heart stumbles on things I don't know. My weakness I feel I must finally show..."Mumford & Sons, Awake My Soul.
Lately, and lately is perhaps a safe word, I find myself at a loss. It's not so much what to read or write; I have at my disposal more books than I could ever make it through in a lifetime, and a few more lifetimes worth of writing I could put my quill to.
It's the whys and wherefores that escape me. Reading, and indeed writing, has lost its taste in me.
Am I saying anything different from what's out there? Is anyone? Better yet, is any of what's already out here, what's sensible and sensitive at least -- be it my own or otherwise -- proving at all effective?
Yet there's always more to it. It's never quite as simple as that. It's not that I am never happy even at my most depressed. The real challenge is always in staying happy. Not finding a reason to smile, but finding reason in a smile.
At my most manic, the conflict that becomes of the contradictions we come to naturalize into our convictions barely fazes me. My days are spent vigorously moving forward, sailing over depressive interlude after the next.
These contradictions are relentless, though.
With every mile I run the steeplechase, they hoist the barrier a notch higher, and I begin to sense that I will eventually land face first into the water jump passage.
"Under the water you scream so loud but the silence surrounds you..."
Justin Timberlake, Blue Ocean Floor.
Yet that knowledge, knowing how close my hand is to the self-destruct buzzer, does little to stop its eventuality.
Gradually it becomes inevitable. Pretty soon my revolving door of hobbies hinges on sleeping and disappointing everyone close to me.
Disappointing myself is the only job I seem to excel at.
For a few days I will try, in vain appreciation of what's coming, to steady the ship. Or at least, to not rock the boat. Guilt-riddled days turn into seeking nights, finding precious if short-lived pleasures in the escape of silent apathy a good Series provides.
And then another. Just one more episode...
Night turns to day as avoidance becomes an effortless art. My tethered mind is now vast uncharted territory, fast emptying of all hope. It's such a big place; spacious rooms infinitely supplied with shame and regret. I tell myself that if I can hold fast to my steadfast passions then we won't get lost.
Only the colour fades off them too, and they no longer stand unwavering in deep seated support of my sundered soul. Questions replace certainties in my resolve of who I am; doubt clouds my conviction in what I believe; deep down I feel broken, disconnected, defective - surrounded by the happy continuous illusory perfection of friend and foe.
Ridiculous, I should know, these thoughts. I have known. I want to get back to knowing, for the life of me. Perhaps it's time to take that pill, lull the good with the bad altogether and just be 'normal.' Just perhaps, I need it more than I need my personality untamed.
Independently shackled.
Untainted.
Blemished.
Or do I?
" I need freedom now, I need to know how to live my life as it's meant to be..."Mumford & Sons, The Cave.
 |
| Robot Hugs: What If People Treated Physical Illness Like Mental Illness? |
