Losing and striving to find yourself

“Dismantle your wounds so you stop living your life by them”
Nikki Rowe

(Note: This blog would suck. Cuz I’ve lost it within that me that makes me write. My other blogs are good tho.)

I feel blank right now. I’ve lost my will to write. Or more likely, I feel there is nothing to write about for me. That is scary, very scary. I haven’t felt that before. I generally read over a dozen books a month, I haven’t been able to finish a single book this month tho. I’ve lost all motivation, I’ve lost all desire. You know one of those moments, when all you feel is that you’re a pit? You feel empty. You tell you are lazy, exhausted, that you are tired. You have no interest to do anything. This apparently is a side effect of depression. Alas, depression itself is a side effect of dying. Almost everything is, really. (JG ref#1047939)

Don’t let yourself fall into that trap. You are stronger than that. I’m forcing myself to try and to write. There was a time when my pen would just keep scratching the paper. I would think and feel that much. When I was at class, when I was eating lunch, when I was out shopping. There would always be something for me to write about. There would always be me reading twice as much as I write. And now I’ve gotta force myself to sit down and jot something. Thats how much I’ve lost myself. But its okay. I’m working on myself.

You could too. Make an oath to differ. To cause a change. Make yourself obedient enough to follow it. Discipline your mind. You are lost only to be found again, anew and awesomer. And the only person who can find you back is you. Don’t give up on the things you love doing. Don’t give up on yourself, ever. I love you, this blog sucks compared to the previous ones but whatever. (Please do take a minute to scroll down and read tho) I’m not giving up. I wrote that. I can still write that. Or better. All we need is ourselves; we’ll be okay:)

P.S. Rereading this, I realize how much a shitty writer I’ve become but I’m feeling so much better after taking effort to write this down.

Remind me to forget

“To be alive is to be missing.”
TATWD. JG.

I miss him. I never thought he’d matter so much to me. I never thought I could love someone that much. I never thought I could. But he made me real, in a way that I thought I couldn’t ever become. I’d made my walls strong enough, I’d made myself cold enough to not feel emotion or hurt. Sleepless nights, no appetite. I thought I wasn’t human. But he made me believe, in love, in our friendship, that it was something I could count on, that we’d be forever. I learnt how to let go of my insecurities and love someone, like squeeze your heart and drain every last bit of love out for them. I hurt. I feared. But I also loved. I became a person from just another species on the animal kingdom. Love is both how you become a person and why. (Another TATWD ref XD)

But then, he played me. I thought you can’t get played by a friend, but yeah, you can. It took me long enough to realize what I meant to him. He told me I wasn’t just a speck of dust but a star; I realized he meant the universe to me and a star was but a speck of dust. I think that I shouldn’t be writing this post, that I shouldn’t value him so much to do this, that I shouldn’t love him anymore, that I should leave him for the way he treated me.

But here I am, still writing this, still posting this, still..

We can all get over that someone. Trust me. It took me a long time, long, long time. But I’m making it. So can you. You can and will go on. You’re independent and strong and everything that you wish you were and weren’t, too. If I can make it, so can you. There might still be a part that hopes for things to go back to how it was. But was it really what I thought it was? Or is that a lie I’m imagining too?

Pain and Metaphor

“There are times when you just have to let it all out. All the anger, all the pain.”
Will Grayson, Will Grayson. JG.

Hope, love, change. These are very significant terms, they have power. You can’t deny the acute shortness of breath that you feel when you say out those words aloud. These are things that we fear (we refer to them as “things” and not just “words,” like they are real. And real things can kill us.) Why? Because of the precedented loss. Pain. It is the only word that is so hard to express. Language at once runs dry when you try to express pain, be it physical or psychic. You can easily tell what it was like, but it is impossible to tell what is was. (TATWD, my friends, yes.) We seek to use metaphor to try to describe it. The “it” being so vast but also nothing at all, being some unnameable object? feeling? …some unnameable, inexplicable something that terrorizes all of us. Its like ten fat men wearing stilettos standing on my head, like someone choking my throat, its like a knife piercing my heart, again and again. These metaphors, our language; it does so little to communicate, the ache, the longing, the strength of the people bearing this, the emotional tug of war, the exhaustion in your limbs, the physical and psychic pain. Nothing connotes the surge of hurricanes inside of you, but this too is a metaphor; the riot of emotions inside of yourself, like two kingdoms fighting for dominance, but that is too. The abundant language, that allows for everything, does not give us freedom enough to convey how we feel and perceive what we feel. The thing is, crossing all these boundaries, setting aside your insecurities, when you let others know how you truly feel within, they judge you. Crazy, dramaqueen, mess, attention-seeker, mental.

You’re seeking for encouragements, aren’t you? But we both know it. Nothing I could possibly say would make it hurt less, or show how dauntless you are that you still go on. But I can tell and mean this: I hope you find help if you are suffering, I hope you find the right people, I hope you are cared for and loved, I hope you are understood.