Alienated from my light

Sometimes I like to hum loudly to drown out the howl of the biting wind whipping me in the face like this. I pray for an emotional calm as I trudge in this blizzard, seeking a faint light in the distant, a reassurance that I haven’t been swallowed whole by this storm. I stopped trying to warm my hands, curled up with cold, and I can feel my body slow down as a fog of despair starts moving through my mind ; what if I never find a way out of this? Am I just trying to postpone the inevitable?

Life, for me, is the most critical in these moments because if I stop I don’t think I’ll be able to recover the momentum to start back up again. Frantically searching for even a wisp of hope, a sign of life, flicking through the archive of my mind to see if I can recall if anyone has mentioned pushing past this threshold before. In my ears, my heartbeat is pulsating with the poisonous doubt that has entered my blood stream. I slow down as I’m flooded with the memories of all the times I persevered in vain and my efforts were for naught. I feel like a knot in my stomach shot up to my throat, like an inverse punch. Warmth spreads through me as I create a light out of the certain futility of trying. My tears well up and my nose is tickling with a cold sensation. I don’t see the blizzard anymore or hear the ferocious winds whipping past me. I feel like I’ve arrived, and I know I don’t have to suffer the expansive loneliness of this unending blizzard anymore.

I was not swallowed whole by the blizzard, but I helplessly succumbed to it. I calmly walked towards what had snuffed out my light.


Image : Cottage on an island near Nora, Sweden. By Jonas Loiske.

Beam me up Scotty

I don’t know how to live with this kind of pain crowding my body. It feels like there’s no room for me to investigate, as if I’m just pushing up against the sore places, making things worse by my curiosity. As if understanding amplifies the pain and exacerbates the suffering. As if the darkness of repression is a safe house.

But that safe house is where hope dies, so now what? Did I just dig my own grave by believing that the best way to deal with pain is to keep it out of mind?

Death growing inside of me

I’m locked up in my squalid life because I don’t want others to come in and look at me with that look I’ve been avoiding mirrors for. I’m locked in darkness because the dark protects me, covers me, buries my existence, and with it, the painful reminders of my life. I don’t see much that is redeemable. All I see is what’s wrong with me. All I hear is the muffled wails imprisoned in my throat. All I feel is the jagged edges of my being. All I know is the echoing of my thoughts.

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Apparition of a life

image

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.

Emotional orphan

I was emotionally orphaned.

My mum told me that I was a very fussy baby who’d cry nonstop. So she made sure I was fed and clean – physically cared for – and just leave me be when I cry ‘for no apparent reason’. I believe we are all born with fully formed souls and personalities and we spend life learning to accept ourselves. I think that first year when my body was cared for but my mind ignored, something within me broke. Shattered to smithereens. Because when I turned one, I changed drastically. I became reticent and quiet. Still. If I were told to sit down, I’d sit there for hours until told to get up. That’s not normal for a one year old is it? I don’t think so.

My dad was much more compassionate than mum. He was a doting father who wouldn’t let me cry. He observed my every move to try to decipher my language. He even kept a shorthand notebook for my baby babble and he’d be my translator of sorts. They really tried, my parents. I was a very sensitive and old soul and they had to improvise because I wasn’t like normal infants. I was even scared of the dark! I was merely a couple of months and I’d freak if the lights were turned off. 😀

I was 1 year and 8 months when my twin brothers were born. It threw everyone off course, because they were unplanned. Not only that, but mum almost died giving birth via c-section. She spent the first 6 months or so in and out of hospital. My dad had to work. We lived in a small southern town of Sweden where we didn’t have any relatives to help out. It was hard. I think the sudden change of dynamics where I was pushed off the only child seat and relegated to the background in the face of the clamour and mum’s illness, affected me very deeply.

One day I blurted out something that couldn’t have belonged to my mind and be spoken by my tongue. I wasn’t even 2 years yet, when I addressed my parents and a family friend who were in our midst;
‘ hooyo mid, aabe mid, aniga baabah’. Which is Somali for ‘ mum one, dad one, me nothing ‘, pointing out that my parents’ hands were occupied with both my infant twin brothers and I was left alone.
Heart wrenching and mind-boggling as it was, the family friend was utterly devastated and scooped me up immediately, sobbing at my words that I was too young for.

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