There are so many things I would like to say, so many stories I would like to share, so many pain I would like to express. These things are in my head—screaming, boiling, begging to be heard. But I cannot find any more reasons to release them to the universe where I believe that I do not owe anybody an explanation for my life and that nobody really cares about what’s really going on and I don’t want them to also inflict the same damage that I have sustained.
But then again, I realise I really need a release to lessen this sadness, maybe? And sure there is no one out there in the world who would even care to read these words or to bat an eyelash when I scream about what’s going on inside my head.
I feel sad again. I feels like I am stoned and wasted or anything close to that effect. Is this what depression feels like?
But I’m sure most people have it worst than me. I’m sure they’re dealing with stuff I can’t even imagine. I’m sure what I’m struggling with is nothing compared to others.
Though my feelings are valid, right? We can’t belittle and invalidate other people’s pain and struggle just because it’s different from us. We also can’t measure and compare personal situations. It all varies in context and personal histories.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. I know all those “journey of one thousand steps starts with one” and “nothing good comes quick” adages are rooted in truth, but sometimes I just wish that everything amazing and meaningful and worthwhile happens to me suddenly with little work on my part because life is tiring. I’m tired!
I feel so damn tired. I feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. I feel like anything I do is never enough. I feel like I’m breaking for no reason. I feel like I’m on the brick of crying every second of everyday. But I can’t break down. At least not in public. I can’t let anyone know I’m crying everyday for the past several days. I can’t let anyone know I’m breaking on the inside each moment I’m left alone with my thoughts and myself. I can’t let anyone know because I don’t want to trouble them. All I can do is face these problems . . . sometimes they’re things, sometimes they’re situations, sometimes they’re people.
I don’t want my dear friends and love ones to ask me if I’m okay because I don’t want them to comfort me. And I know they have their own struggles too.
Don’t get me wrong, I more than welcome their help. I more than welcome them lending ears to listen to my rant. I more than welcome them to spend time with me, sharing laughters and hilarious stories.
I just don’t want anyone to ask.
I don’t want to give the part of my soul to anyone.
I just want them let me be.
Let me be alone in my room . . . Let me cry . . . Let me be in my own misery without affecting anybody else.
The funny thing is, the moment I step out of my room and face people, the tears suddenly stop, my expression will instantly turn normal . . . I’m smiling and laughing again.
What’s happening? I don’t know what’s going on.
Is it because of too much stress? Is it my anxiety trying to knock me down? Is this pretty much what I can only handle? Am I just being pressured in life? Am I having a quarter life crisis?
I don’t know.
I always think about the endless list of things I want to do, the people I want to be, the lives I want to live, and I imagine each one of them happy in a universe far from where I am. There were also times I remember things and think to myself if they ever really happened in real life, or if they ever only occurred in dreams, or less never occurred at all. Mixing the reality to my delusional ideals, maybe. There is always this dizzying distortion in my head, constantly blurring the lines between what I know and what I remember. I knew
I want to be a little girl again.
Can it all just stop . . . even for a little while?
Can I just go away from reality . . .
Are we not all vulnerable in the face of a reality that is oblivious to the predicaments of man? Are we not all in this great doomed ship that is Life—our hopes a mere life-vest in the face of a mightier danger that is the ocean? And if the human skin is a tough impediment for the waging battles of our souls, are we not better off fighting without our armories on? This flesh, this skin this lingering sensation of bones—are we not supposed to destroy them, to deny them, and to carry on this battle into a realm where nothing is solid and where every attack quickly dissipates into thin air?
I freaking do not know how to end this, except by asking for an apology to myself for never really knowing what to do with her. I’m sorry I freaking do not know what to do with you.
So I tell myself, be strong and brace yourself for the coming wave.