They say that one should be true to one’s self. But is that easy? For many days I have been reading all these insightful pieces about self reflection on brain pickings. I love that blog btw. and I am in my knowledge quite self reflective, but its one thing to be self reflective and another to be able to write it down. Now I have been writing a diary since the age of ten years, mainly because I was shy and I had no friends, however, those times were comparatively easy than what I have to face now. I haven’t written a diary in about a year, the last time I wrote was after a break up. Or more like a decision to break up. That relationship dragged on for another year, so that self reflection was pointless I’d say. Even then as I have grown older day by day I have begun to love myself a little less, or I should say hate myself a little more since I never actually loved myself.
I am writing this piece today wondering what exactly went wrong. I see myself as a writer, a story teller, I love listening to people tell me about their lives, their experiences, love and betrayals, and I love telling other people stories about other people, or funny stories about my life. And from the response I get, I am quite funny. I think. The people seem to laugh. It can’t be that everyone pretends right. But when it comes to personal stories I cannot quite tell people. It is tough; I am like a clogged pipe. Filled with emotions,fears and pains, and I just wish I could let it all out. Now writing had always been my therapy. Since I was a kid I would write down what I felt and feel a little better.
But since I have become a teenager, and now that I am twenty, I find it so difficult to express myself. I can very much self reflect and talk to myself about the deepest things I feel, when it comes to writing however, I think it’s the written word that changes it.
So yesterday I tried writing in my diary after years, it was a really hard day, I was having one of my existential crises and I wanted to vent out, however I couldn’t go beyond a paragraph. I don’t know about other people but I guess seeing my true self out on paper freaks me out. I have lived in denial for all my life. In denial about my feelings for others,depression, about my weight, or the way I look at myself. I have closeted these feelings and camouflaged them, and only I know. But sometimes talking to me is not enough. I wish I was more open, that I had more friends, but I don’t. Instead the voice in my head is my only support, but it annoys me now. I wish there were more voices.
And it’s not that people hate me, it’s my head that thinks that people hate me,. And if I give a hint there will be more voices.But instead whenever anyone tries to make their way in I slam the door in their face, and then cry at the fact that there is no one. And so I thought that if I could write again like I used I will feel better. But I just couldn’t. I feel like I am choking. I want to let it all out. But when I see what I feel, in physical form, it makes me sick. And this got me thinking, am I really that bad? I am a good person, a good daughter, friend, colleague, student, companion and sister. Some may even say that I am a good writer painter and photographer (I haven’t reached that space where I can say that for myself) but still my head makes me think that I am nothing. It makes me think that I deserve no love. That I should be abandoned by everyone I know. And this is difficult because the people who are warm to me feel my coldness and do abandon me. And this further fuels the fire. I am stuck in a cycle of self destruction. Sometimes I just wish I could end it all. I have tried it before, multiple times, but was not successful.
Even now as I type, my eyes are stuck to the keys, in the fear that I will not continue. Why m I so ashamed of myself? What is this guilt all about? What have I done to deserve this, from no one but myself? Why am I my biggest enemy? When I should be a friend. People say its good to be self critical in balance. I think I am a self loather, a self cheater, a self destructor, and assassinator .Gosh. I don’t know. My future looks so bleak.
Day by day I am just falling through this super massive black hole, desperately trying to figure out what to do. I have come to such a stage of hurting that I don’t even feel the pain anymore. I am numb inside, hard outside, ungrateful, borderline insane, selfish. God knows what. Why is this so hard? When people say they love me, I think they are blind. Is it possible that I have been the one who was blind all along? But even if I was blind, and I can see now, what is there to see that I was missing in the first place? I don’t see the things that people see, I think they are having delusions, they feel the same for me, the arguments are pointless. Can anyone show me the light. Is there any light at all? Life is moving on, on a single day I think it is so hard that I cannot make it through.
After a month I feel that it went away too soon. I don’t see anything worthwhile that I may have achieved. All I have done is lived, but not been alive.
Is there a difference?
Can I wake up one day from this dull slumber and feel the blood rush through my veins?
Or do my veins just carry regret, guilt and shame.
Will I always feel the same?
Why do I feel sick by love when it is what the world seeks?
Somewhere deep down even I crave some Loving.
Why do I push away warm friends, when I am dying of the cold that pierces my heart every day.
Why do I run away from sounds when the silences have begun to haunt me?
I have been looking for answers, but since I have none, I have finally taken he courage to vomit out my feelings. I am not even going to read them back, lest they hold me in, and capture me like they always have. Today I want to send this out. I don’t care if anyone reads this or not, maybe deep down I do. But I just want to feel better. I want to be happy too.