I haven’t morphed, just evolved somewhat.
You may or may not have noticed I changed my username. I now go by what you see because I’m carrying less regret than what previously burdened my shoulders.
Life? Life’s being lived vividly I dare say.
My therapist kinda sucks so I’ve taken the liberty of trusting my gut (as always) and counting on the sweet release of chemicals thanks to my medication. Hashtag not sponsored but Prozac, hit me up. Truth be told, I think I have a clearer mind now that I’m shedding off my anxiety.
I’m doing things with a relative ease I didn’t possess. Here’s a list of things happening:
- I’m going on a trip abroad. For anyone that knows/knew me, my distaste for experiencing other cultures is significant. Hey, it turns out I want to do things so I’m travelling to a country in Europe that shall not be named for internet’s sake
- I’m doing a seminar and expanding my artistic horizons in a way I had never tried before. It had been a distant dream of mine as a teenager and now it’s kinda happening
- I’m more open to expressing what I really think without censoring myself and worrying if people will like me. Suprisingly, people like me even though I’m weird in a ‘me’ way
- I’m less worried in general
- I’m happy?!
It’s been some time, here’s what’s up.
I think I’m happy, or at least happier than I have been in a long time. Despite my great need to control and feel safe, I’ve been trying to live in the moment.
For someone who seems laid-back, I’m not. I’ve trained myself to appear calm in order to calm myself. Here’s a tip. It doesn’t work. Through intense thinking, I’ve decided that being vulnerable isn’t the worst thing that can happen.
I’m in the process of finding out what makes me happy and giving no fucks… and maybe branching out into an endless world of possibilities.
These things might seem trivial but I’ve compressed my essence into a continuous stream of repetition and now it feels like I can actually want to expand my life into something more. Does this make sense?
The night was tonight, October the 18th.
It didn’t have any sort of significance, just that it was today and it was night. Distant noise of people having a life on Thursday made its way through my ears, enough for me to register and use it as a background descriptor.
I noticed a small patch of land I loved to pass through as a kid. It’s yet again been restructured into someone else’s architectural project and our mayor’s persistant on destroying anything that’s left. They planted grass that was real and fake at the same time because it never tried, it was simply placed there and assumed a role.
My right thumb was tucked obsessively inside my fist, a tightness I had noticed because I’ve been aware of what a weirdo I am.
I knew that Australia had a prime Minister that had disappeared into the ocean one day when he went for a mysterious walk. My mother was surprised I knew of that but really… mom, has there ever been a fact so tailor-made for me to know?
Once upon a time, there was a short story which helped nobody, for not a single person could relate to it. Instead, it was the perfect activity for the writer to unwind and produce a stream of unconscious thoughts, perhaps to help out with the inner workings of said writer’s brain.
The short story helped because it was quite a boring day, one of those hot days when there was nothing to do but stare at walls, when even the breeze assaulted you with steaming air. The kind of day when the writer listened to casual ballads that would make Elton John proud. Even the uncomfortable chair made perfect sense.
The perils of supermarkets and walking in search of banks were long gone, for there were much better things to do than be human and socializing. The writer could smoke and breathe in peace in that blessed solitude of one’s self. Solitude was the best word, it sounded grandiose and superb despite the fact that people confused it with loneliness. Loneliness was solitude’s lesser twin, solitude was confident and badass, while loneliness was dependant, whiny and insecure. The writer had mastered solitude.
Now, as you, the reader ponders on these words of no context, do you feel a picture being painted? Is it safety? Heat means coziness and coziness bares likeness to the womb. Keep in mind that the writer cares not about the reader. No literary masterpiece cared about the reader, never forget that. The images being projected into your mind just show how talented the creator is at capturing moments and thoughts, organizing them into lines and sentences and paragraphs and pages. It’s funny how you can see things inside your brain without witnessing them in front of your very eyes.
What the writer meant was that the short story had been a metaphor all along. The writer had not yet learned how to use structure… and to be honest, it didn’t mean much. Following rules and caring about fluidity is overrated.
The true reason of the short story’s existence was finally revealed at last, for we’re reaching the end of this tale and at last, the story wouldn’t have been itself without you, someone to read it.
This spiritual connection I’m supposed to have has been forever eluding me ever since I was born. Truth be told, it’s not the only thing I can’t wrap my head around but for this post’s sake, let’s pretend I’m fully functional.
This place I live in is generally perceived as religious and people still cling to traditions of the olden ages. It’s funny how my mind immediatelly equates religion with being narrow-minded. I know it’s not the case for most religious people but it’s different here.
Personally, I felt left out when I was young for not understanding (or wanting) a belief in something beyond being human. The Orthodox religion seemed strict and scary, the saints pictured along the walls looked like gaunt mummified remains and the church smelled weird. This of course pertains to a specific dogma and I would like to include belief in general.
Do we need to believe in something higher to feel complete? Or has that idea been forced on us because we started off as explaining the wonders of our universe through tales and crazy stories.
Does this abyss inside us exist? The one that needs to be filled with a God or Gods? Is a divine being just a prank that started thousands of years ago when some person wrote a joke on a scroll?
I think that our consiousness likes to torment ourselves, either by being scared of heaven and hell, or just wondering in vain what created the Big Bang. Either way, we’re all different and right in our own way as long as that opinion is stated eloquently and democratically, without excluding those that oppose you.
We don’t need any more divide.
So, do you need religion?
Happy World Suicide Prevention day, if that’s something we’re supposed to say! There are many people out there that need to be informed about how suicide affects all of our lives. There’s someone out there that might need your help, that might think they have nobody left to stand up for them or stand by their side.
I went to an event at a suicide crisis center, listened to the statistics and stories of people silently suffering through life because fuck, mental health is still something we whisper to each other. I made a mental note to be more open about it from now on, not just for my sake, but for someone else that might be too scared to start the conversation themselves.
Some of you might know that my best friend is suicidal and how it was quite a shock for me.
Thinking back to those days, six or seven months ago, I was scared but certain that we’d pull through. She’s headstrong and cool in that way… but I worried about what would happen if she tried to kill herself and succeed. I selfishly pictured my life empty and much less weird without her and it was terrible, not just for the people she could have left behind but for herself as well, for the immense potential she’s showing every single day (despite her best efforts at saying she’s a turd).
I can’t speak on her behalf because she’s done all the work. In retrospect, she’d probably say it was worth it.
It’s scary to feel alone but there’s always someone there for you, it could be a stranger on the internet or your cousin or your best friend. You might think they won’t care or won’t understand or that you’re a burden, but you’re not. I promise you’re not.
So, to all of you out there, take some time and breathe, talk to someone you trust and seek help from medical professionals.
My mother was basically gone for a month and a half, right when I decided to see a mental health specialist. She finally came back and I told her that I’m on medication and that I’m getting help. It was surprisingly easy to tell her because I mostly wanted to stop lying about what I was doing.
It’s nice to openly talk about my medication and my troubles sleeping.
On an even better note, I think there might be a tiny little change in the way I feel. I don’t drown my brain in thoughts every night and fall asleep much easier. I don’t know how it will feel when the pills will start kicking in or if I will even be able to feel a difference but hey, we’re getting there!
To anyone out there having doubts, tell someone. It’s hard and embarrassing but that weight feels so much lighter once you tell a person you trust.
I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’ve had two coffees today but I’m itching to smoke to take this edge off. Obviously I wouldn’t actually smoke but fucking hell, sometimes it takes extra willpower to remain looking calm.
Honestly, if there was one thing I could do without consequence, I would pick smoking cigarettes. It’s a fake kind of relaxation but it worked. Or maybe I was willingly killing myself slowly and had embraced that path I had chosen.
Anyway, tomorrow is a new day and I actually have plans to do something instead of sit around at home and pretend to sleep when sleep doesn’t come. I need to be productive because my anxiety gets worse the less I challenge it. I must stimulate my mind and push to get better because believe it or not, there are times when I wish I could be a little more normal and a little less me.
With ultra regret,
It’s almost three weeks since I started taking Prozac and I’ve been having very vivid dreams the past two nights. The first night, I dreamt that I was falling and I woke up, leaping out of bed.
Last night, I dreamt that I was hanging off a balcony and screaming for help while people were staring at me and not helping at all. Instead of waking up, I actually fell and landed on the ground but it was a very soft landing, as if there was sand beneath my feet.
It’s interesting to say the least. Can’t say I’ve had any negative effects yet except for my mouth feeling like the fucking desert!
I decided to write about my family, more specifically the mental issues many of my relatives faced or face, mostly in an attempt to make some sense of what is hereditary or not. In order to understand myself, I have to see what my genetic information is made of.
My mother grew up in an unstable household and she craved a family bond that was never there. She’s a great mother to me. Unfortunately, she struggled with eating disorders during her young adult life because she needs to be in control of something, even at this age. She’s somewhat neurotic and strives for perfection. Sometimes her fixation with food and my well-being makes me angry because she comments on my fitness in a way that feels mean-spirited.
My father is the middle child and has always tried to do things his way but at the same time, he cares too much about people’s expectations. I think he feels that he hasn’t accomplished much compared to his older sibling. I know that he feels depressed but he hides it by being bitter at things. His childhood was him being ignored by his parents while they babied their eldest son.
My grandfather probably had what is now called PTSD. I overheard a conversation my father was having. Apparently, sometimes my grandfather would walk outside and was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice people waving at him. He was in the Second World War and had a gun pointed to his head. He was saved when a fellow soldier shot the German. It was a cool story to hear but it never occured to me to think why he told it so often or why he was so quiet after saying it. In many ways, we are alike. He was honest and funny and didn’t apologise for being himself.
My grandmother is somewhat of an enigma because she has no personality, except for many being a bitch and only caring about what others will think of her. She has some form of dementia so everything is nice and dandy for her because she doesn’t know what she’s done. Anyway, that’s another story. I think she was a product of her time, what women should be. Back then, she was destined to be a wife and a mother and that’s it. One time, when I was a child I made her cry by telling her that women didn’t have to be quiet and coy. I used to love her.
There have been many cases of untreated shit that’s gone on for too long, so I’m hoping to make a change. My family is a strange one but the moments that shine the brightest are when we’re laughing all together, telling stories in our typical fucked-up sense of humor.
I just… need to set some things right with myself.