It started with wanting to write for the first time in more than two years. What followed was signing up to several different blogging sites just to see that none of them matched my criteria for a certain level of privacy, or provided me with a domain name I was okay with.
Therefore, I did what every 23 year old self-loathing individual with little impulse control would do. I bought my own. But then I found out that having your own domain is just not enough and you need to host it, upgrade to Wix Premium because you've turned into a sucker for UI design ever since you had to ensure equal pixel margins on two sides of an HTML container, connect your previously bought domain, pay some more money in the process, and then get an email saying it'll take at least forty-eight hours for your changes to be reflected.
So then I did that too, and by the time I had finished, I didn't even fell like writing anymore.
Just like how every morning I wished I could skip work, or the sunlight, or people, even though I promised myself the previous night that tomorrow is going to be different. It's been almost a year of never-changing tomorrows I want to avoid. It's been almost a year of me telling myself that things get better.
Some days are easy. You have people around who make you hate yourself a little less. They bring a smile to your face as you look at them and yet you don't have an answer when they ask you what's up. You shake your head, play a recording of yourself saying "nothing", and continue basking in their presence while you can because even the air starts feeling different on your skin on days they aren't present. You're anyway past the point where they consider you creepy for staring at them longer for five seconds. Five seconds would actually be a joke. now that they know how weird you are.
What would you tell them anyway? "You make me happy"? They already know. "Please don't leave"? That's a trick question and you know it because the moment they say they won't, there's an hourglass turned somewhere in which the sand has just started to empty out. "You're responsible for my happiness"? Well, you've tried that one and it was misunderstood as you trying to force someone to solve your math equation instead of them realizing that they've already filled in most of the steps and it's fine if you don't get the final correct answer. Your happiness is already present. You'll pass.
Some days are harder. Those people are still around you. But you know they won't be someday. They've already told you that they'll never leave. You've already told them that it's you who fucks up, you who is toxic. It's all fallen to deaf ears. Somehow the only ears that aren't deaf are yours. And you don't even need your ears in such a case because the voice that you listen to is inside your head. It's the loudest of them all, and by far, your worst critic. That voice is only a voice, until you look into a mirror. And then every time you look into a mirror, you don't see yourself any longer. You see the guy who goes out every day and interacts with the world. You see the guy everyone else sees, the guy who is every shade of black white and grey with a dash of maroon.
"Why maroon? Why not any other shade of color?"
"Well, it's dark, and you don't notice it in a room amidst everything yellow, blue, green, or red. But when it's gone, you know there's something missing. Something important."
I have to say I was impressed. The wallflower had a color now.
Some days are the hardest. The people you had around you, aren't there. It's not that they've left. Not yet. They just have lives unlike yours. You wake up at 4PM on a weekend. You count how many hours you have left to finish work that has been pending since the previous week. You do the very same things you have done every weekend for the past eleven and a half months - eat something, lie in bed, watch some videos, take a nap at 6, wake up, watch some videos, skip food because you ate lunch for two at 5PM, try taking a nap at 10 telling yourself you'll wake up at 12.30 and work all night, fail because come on let's face it, you've slept for the last twenty fucking hours, finally doze off at 1.30, ignore the 14 alarms that start from 2AM at half-hour intervals, finally wake up at 9AM and realize you fucked up. At the very least, if you had to go on a bender, you could add some alcohol and regrettable life choices that would make it a little easier to ignore yourself. You just had to know better didn't you. You stupid piece of shit.
The voice inside my head would argue that knowing I'm a piece of shit coincidentally doesn't make me better than other pieces of shit who don't know they're stupid pieces of shit. Maybe the voice is right. Maybe the voice in my head deserves to be the resident voice in my head, not because it drowns out my cries for help, but because I do not deserve a cry for help. Apparently it's not good enough if you do not want to live with yourself. And I do not want to live with myself. So, I guess I have no right to drag anyone else into this cesspool of morbidity until it is one where I would like to exist. But then you always have hope, don't you? And hope by far, is the worst feeling of them all. The feeling that something will change, and you will be okay. Someone will come along and drive away the voice in your head.
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