Action is meant to express (i.e. conduct and convey) the will of the soul. It’s not meant as an escape from it. Action is meant to complement the being, not substitute it through frantic busywork.
I’ve been trying to get my shit together for the past 7 weeks now. I keep thinking a solution is an article,talk,theory away. I don’t want to write until I’m ‘ok’ whatever that means. OK is a place I visit. I don’t belong there. Between the black hole in me that consumes all hope, and the daily pressures of doing stuff, I’m trying to stay alive.
Some days ago,things turned awry. I was in the strong clutches of suicidal thoughts; a place I hadn’t been to in years. It’s like the bermuda triangle, you can’t swim away. The force is so strong and hope is so frail. I let myself be carried away. I didn’t see the point in expending energy in trying to get away when there was no shore in sight. I was on the precipice; an ironic calm washed over me as all thoughts left my mind. I was surprisingly cool headed. I picked out the method and the only thing that occupied my mind was my self-consciousness due to my body dysmorphia. That’s all. I didn’t think about anything else. I felt I had no one and nothing to live for anymore. All my struggles in all my years I’ve mostly kept to myself, in my mind. The thoughts,the tears, my true self would come out at night, under the cover of darkness. I guess because I’m so aloof very few truly know me.
I had one friend, a really good friend hold on to me that night, and refused to let go. He saved me in the nick of time, truly. Just writing about it makes tears well up in my eyes and cloud of sadness gather in my chest, because I still feel that I’m no one and that my existence doesn’t matter much.
I feel that I need to lean on something or someone in order to make it through the day. If I try to detach and stand on my own, I picture myself slacklining in a wobbly manner with a black, gaping abyss beneath me. I don’t want to fall and die. I’ve gone through the false sense of hope and motivation where I held the ludicrous thought that I could make it to the other end of the line, unscathed, one too many times to know that it’s a farce. At least that’s what I’m convinced of. I don’t know how to brace myself to feel emotional pain without clinging to a crutch like coca cola or repetitive mind-numbing activities. I feel sleepy typing this because I feel a cloud of discomfort coming over me, and I must seek shelter before silver bullets rain on me.
I am a ghost, a faint idea of a person who once had dreams and lofty hopes but they died long ago and I linger on hoping for something, refusing to pass on. Every now and then I catch bright streaks moving in my peripheral vision, a flicker so brief that it very well could be my mind playing tricks on me again.
I watched an interview with Common who won the 2015 Academy Award for Best Original Song for the song Glory as he recounted some memorable moments in shooting the movie Selma which centres on the civil rights movement, spearheaded by Dr. King and he mentioned that Ambassador Andrew Young spoke to the actors on the first day of rehearsal. Young made a potent statement that jolted Common awake; said Young; ‘Their [ civil rights activist ] philosophy was; What are you willing to die for? Live for that.’ Common continues; . “These people were willing to die for freedom and voting rights, so they lived for that. Each day was put to that.”
It shocked me, the way it did Common and it made me re-think my life; what was I willing to die for? Did I even have anything I was willing to die for? The answer I found sent shivers down my spine.
I was willing to die for comfort. I am willing to die for being sheltered from pain and fears. And surely, my life reflects that.
Death is the ultimate fear. Life is the ultimate sacrifice. So these are the parameters that I have to contend with in defining my life. I let past tragedies and traumas distort those parameters and I did die; I sacrificed my life to fear, begging it to leave me alone. In turn, my passion, the fire of my soul, died down.
Some people die at 25 and aren’t buried until 75.
= Benjamin Franklin=
Indeed, I let a life of safety and comfort fool me into thinking that because the pain was now dull and not sharp, as it had been before , that it was absent. But it simply slowed down a notch or two, and it was eating away at me whilst I did nothing.
It takes courage…to endure the sharp pains of self discovery rather than choose to take the dull pain of unconsciousness that would last the rest of our lives.
= Marianne Williamson =
When I want to face something I’m really scared of like telling someone a painful truth or being vulnerable with another, I ask myself what the worst thing that could happen was, and I prepare to face that worst-case scenario. The fear immediately vanishes in the absence of doubt.
Perhaps I should extend that to the bigger obstacles I face and try so hard to avoid; what’s the worst that pain can do to me? What’s the worst missing out on something I desire could do to me? What’s the worst the boogeyman in the closet can do to me? 😛
“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”
= Eleanor Roosevelt =
My heart is a time capsule
Where I stuffed away all my unwanted,painful memories in my life
In a bid to forget, to make them go away
Turns out it wasn’t a time capsule
it was a bomb
and my heart is about to burst with pain.
For years, I’ve been on a quest to grow. Or so I thought. I’ve gone through hundreds of self-help books, so much so that I feel queasy just thinking about them now.There’s hardly any theory in psychology or philosophy related to the self that I haven’t heard of. I can safely say that I’m an expert. But I don’t think that knowledge went to my heart. Let me explain.
When I decided to deal with my depression, I was 17. I had tried to ignore it for over two years by then and I realized it wasn’t going anywhere. So slowly but surely, I tried different methods and tips to ‘fix’ myself, to no avail. That I was a hardened perfectionist only made things worse. I was constantly harassing myself into figuring things out. What was I missing? Why was I so daft that I couldn’t ‘get’ it? What was I missing that everyone around me seemed to understand? Needless to say that I felt extremely ashamed and angry with myself.
Earlier this week, I found myself in similar territory; I was exasperated and pissed with myself. Why couldn’t I be mindful? Why couldn’t I embody what I’d read in the latest book? Heck, I was even scolding myself for scolding myself! The thoughts seemed familiar, and sure enough, I retraced it to the beginning of my quest. It dawned on me that this was just another ploy to avoid myself. I was essentially looking for an elixir to make me ‘perfect’, to restore me to normalcy. I was avoiding living in me. I feared being intimate with my soul.
I felt it like a blow to my solar plexus. I’ve been running, all these years, only to come back to the start. It was a mixture of devastation,disappointment,rage,sadness, and hopelessness. I busted myself and for that I was mad. I felt safe as long as I had that distant aim in mind; soon I’ll be fine, after I read this book, after I lose 5 kg, after I meet prince charming.It kept my eyes away from the now and that was all that mattered. I
felt, I feel like I’m inherently broken. I feel that whatever improvement I achieve is a scam, soon to be exposed. I fear writing in the capacity I’m capable of because I’m afraid I’ll leave evidence of my falseness in my wake. I’m like a cocoon; I don’t want to become a butterfly. I don’t want to fly. I’m afraid my wings will be scrutinized and I’d be abandoned on the cold, hard ground with nothing to wrap myself with.
I hate solitude and I fear intimacy. For a long time I couldn’t figure out the reason behind this apparent oxymoron. Imagine my heart being a haunted house; I’m scared of the evil that lurks behind doors and under stairs, so I need to make a lot of clamour and noise to drown this fear. To make myself forget this fear. I invite people over,but I tell them we can’t move past the kitchen. I don’t want them to go to the scary nooks and crannies that I invited them to avoid in the first place. But it gets tricky because I can’t really tell them that I’m scared of my own house, right? And what do I tell them when they want a house tour? Perhaps go to the bathroom? Or worse; sleep over??
Now I’m really in a tough position, between a scary and an awkward place. I start becoming agitated because they are defeating the purpose of their visit! Their purpos–
Ah yes… I didn’t think that one through, the purpose thingy. It’s not manipulation, is it? Nah, I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t say that because ,you know, I mean, I like these people, it’s not like I don’t. I just don’t want to go to certain places of my house. I don’t want them to leave either, because, you know, I’d feel guilty for having made them uncomfortable? Yeah, no, you see it’s nothing like manipulation! What’s that?Oh, yeah I did invite them because initially I was scared, but still, they don’t know that right? 😐
Urgh. I’m not getting away with this, am I? I feel so rotten. All these complications because of those darn things that lurk everywhere! You know what, I got it! 💡The problem is this house, so if I move- problem solved! Duh! Why didn’t I think about this earlier? Haha.
My fear? My fear isn’t the issue, I mean I’m scared because it’s haunted, you know? 😕 I mean, I’m not a scaredy-cat or anything. Last house I lived in before this one was in a bad neighbourhood, like bad bad. Killers and rapist roaming the streets at night, you know? Yeah, scary stuff. I didn’t really encounter any, but, you know, I’d hear dudes making noise at 2 am down the street. They sure were up to something.
No, no, I’m really not speculating. The world’s a creepy place, you know? So yeah. I’ll call up the real estate guy first thing in the morning. Gotto find a safe place, remote but not too remote. Big, nice house. Mm, not too big, I mean that’d be creepy. And not too nice, I wouldn’t want to attract robbers, you know? Seeing I live by myself and all. Oh, I’ll have to make new friends now! Aww… :(. Will miss the ones I have. But oh well. Such is life right?
Do I keep in touch with old neighbours? Naah, not really. What’s the point? I mean, we aren’t neighbours anymore, and I always find new ones. I’m too busy to keep in touch.
Huh?I what?What the…!? I am NOT! I’m not using them! Gosh! Geez. What’s with the wild allegations? No, that’s not it. I mean, they don’t keep in touch with me either. Urgh, why are you trying to insinuate that I’m shallow? Why are you making this about me? Why can’t you just believe me ?
Fearful- you say I’m fearful? I am not, mister. Really? Fearful? My goodness. And how does that make me shallow?
Oh, so now I | i m a g i n e |danger huh? Who do you think I am? A lunatic? C’mon! No, that’s not it. There’s an explanation for it all. You know what? I don’t need this bullshitting in my life. You are constantly in my ear, doubting everything I say and tryna confuse me with that psychobabble. You know what Dr. Phil – take your armchair elsewhere. I’m done with you. 😡
* Mental note: