Hey, it’s been a while.
And it’s taken me a lot.
I knew this wouldn’t be easy, but I kind of feel like it should be.
I promised myself a lot of things for the past 4 months, but it seems like I’ve failed at keeping almost all of them.
I promised myself I’d be a new person, that I’d use the opportunity of moving halfway across the world to start over. Turn a new leaf. Be a different person – a better person. Well, I definitely am a different person, but better? I can’t be sure.
I promised myself I’d sort my priorities out. That I’d do everything I can to do things right. And do things well. Be it academic or otherwise. But why am I not bothered anymore? Why don’t I care?
What does it mean when you don’t recognize who you are anymore? When you can recognize yourself in the mirror, and in pictures, but that’s just about it? I find myself asking who I am every single day – who is this anxious wreck that walks around in my room, wears my clothes, and uses my things? Who is this ‘person’ who drinks herself to a stupor every weekend just because she can’t handle reality? Who is this person who can’t be bothered about what she’s saying, what she’s doing? Who is this person who is constantly lying to me, saying that she’s fine and knows what she’s doing?
I’ve made friends, lost friends, left friends behind, been a bitch to some, lied to some others, flaked on a couple. And while I’m thankful that some don’t see through me, I wish they did. Because maybe then they’d see something I don’t. Maybe then they’d tell me what I don’t know. Maybe then they’d make me listen, look, and understand things that I don’t. Know what I mean?
Depression and anxiety is a real thing – don’t try to tell me it’s all in my head. And while I feel like I’ve dealt with the former pretty well, the latter just seems to consume me. I sit in my bed, watching old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, or trying to work, and all of a sudden there’s this huge pit in my stomach that just doesn’t seem to go away. It just keeps growing bigger and bigger and bigger until I can’t breathe anymore. So, I try. I try to make it go away. I try to make it go away by talking to a friend, or going on a walk, or playing some ‘happy’ music. I try hard. But all it does is nothing. My friends tell me to “hang in there”, and that “this will go away soon”. But how long do I need to wait before this feeling stops eating me whole? How far away is “soon”? Why can’t I just be normal like other people? Why can’t I function without having to think about what I’m doing or saying a thousand times? Why can’t I have a conversation with that random person at the café or bar without shaking or feeling like I’m going to throw up? Why am I incapable of love? Why can’t I find someone who loves me? Why do I sound so whiny and pathetic?
Each night I lay my head down and try to breathe and push away these thoughts, they come flooding right back. Like a dam bursting at its seams, I am going to break soon. And I am scared. I am terrified, because I feel like I’m alone. Some of you may say I’m not, and I love you for saying it. But that’s just putting a band aid on a bullet wound.
How do I get myself to be okay? What is it to be ‘okay’ in the first place? I fool myself into thinking I’m happy – but I know that’s just the alcohol. Friends ask me why I drink so much, what do I get out of it? I’m only killing myself slowly. But what you don’t understand is that’s the only time I am truly happy. Because I can’t feel anything. Ironic isn’t it – when I say I’m happy but can’t feel anything? I’m trying to make sense out of it too.
I promised myself I’d be a lot more motivated. I promised myself I’d write more. I promised myself I’d use this opportunity to make my family and friends proud – and to make myself proud. But honestly, I don’t think I know what I’m doing. How do I know what I’m doing if I don’t know who I am in the first place?
Remember what I said in the beginning? That I knew this wasn’t going to be easy? I take that back. Writing this was easy, because it’s the first time in a long time I’ve been honest. To me, and to you. What’s going to be hard is putting this out there. Knowing that now, you know exactly what I’m going through. Was this worth it? I don’t know. Maybe.
This isn’t a cry for help. This isn’t meant for you to pity me. I don’t need pity. I need empathy. I need people to understand. I need myself to understand. And if it’s going to take more of these, then so be it.
But, now, you know.