09 February 2014

Reflecting on current life

Is it worth thinking everything over? That's what I've been doing ever since summer last year. Things that meant so much to me lost their meaning. Became a victim of my dreams and even they were taken away. And whatever I have left is making me anxious. I literally feel locked out of everything. Like I died and suddenly saw that nothing in this world matter like they used to. And I am left with just one wish: to come back to life.

This post is not easy for me to write. But I need somewhere to start. Again.

The moment when I had a flashback last week in class of my drowning back when I was 6 years old, I knew that something was really wrong. That memory never let me forget. Nor does it scare me. It was just... disturbingly comforting somehow. Knowing that I could've died when I was 6. So why didn't I?
What scared me was having near-suicide thoughts again. First time in many, many years.

At that moment my heart started beating fast, my body temperature rose, my head became so heavy and it was hard to breathe. Purely nauseated. This was last Monday and that Monday I was having signs of another panic attack.
Knowing this I immediately left the classroom, walked down the hall and just walked out the building into the cold. I didn't think about putting my jacket on. 
And then there I stood on the patio listening to the silence.

I came home that evening battered inside. So I went to see my doctor the next day and he told me to take a break for the rest of the week. Put a pause to this whole... madness.

And in the past week I've been entirely... indecisive about what's real and what isn't. I was rethinking everything... but didn't see the sense in that. I was resting and recovering... but didn't see the sense in that. I made some changes to deal with the stress I'm going through in school, because I cannot get rid of school - this is not an option, but I don't know if I have any strength left to put up one last fight.

All this time I believed that school was the problem. But the problem was me.

I used to write in journals ever since I was 11... dozens of them. I wrote religiously and it came so natural to me like hunger and pain. I was never raised to speak up or speak out but I always had something to say. And I wasn't afraid of being judged, I wasn't afraid of running out of pages and I wasn't afraid if anyone would find out. But then I stopped.

Books used to be my friends. Imagination was a great place to hide in. I don't need to impress anyone there, I can be whoever I want to be, I can wind down and forget. But what am I reading for now? To pass a test. To get an A. To write reports. To be able to say something in class. Suddenly I hate reading.
I hate reading and that is something I cannot accept. 

Making art was one of the first things I did ever since I was in Kindergarten. I discovered that I could create and it was one of the best feelings in the world to have known that. It was good until last year. There shined a little revelation last year - not the first of its kind but the strongest. Suddenly making art is standing in the way, interrupting my work instead of disburdening it. 
A fucking waste of time. I wanted to destroy all my paintings because I couldn't see the meaning to this anymore. If I can't do it then why should I be reminded that I've done it?
This part of me is in little shit pieces.
This makes me... so angry.

What else is a waste of time?
Resting
Sleeping
Waking up
Eating
Learning
Working
Playing
Crying
Talking

I'm locked out of all that.
That's what the past 6 months have been like. 

But the funny thing is... one day I'm going to look back at this and laugh at the fact that I let everything about this school and the people in it affect me this much.
I can't explain it otherwise. I know I'm not the only one suffering from the whole work load. Many of my classmates have left the school within these 6 months - not without some trauma - and the fact that I am still here saying, "I'll make it," is like being the last battalion of 1000 soldiers fighting against 10 000.
Certain chance of severe trauma when not death. Small chance of success. So what am I waiting for?
May as well fight like the Roman Army in The Battle Of Watling Street (61 A.D.) than give up. Whether or not this is going to do any damage in the long run - I don't know.

On the positive side: This is experience.

I decided to take up yoga again this time.... and go out a lot more. The park, the library, the café early in the morning and talking walks again. To school, to work and back again. And listening to music while I'm at it. It's okay if walking takes a lot longer than taking the bus. At least I'm moving and not being cramped into one small space with other people. 

I'm on the search for a 500 page blank piece of notepad to declare my new journal. 
There is no space for letting out my frustration verbally now... That's where I realise that I am entirely on my own. Always have been.


No comments:

Post a Comment