Suddenly and inexplicably subsumed by bitterness. The sort of bitterness that crystallises into white logic and anger. Why are some human beings born 'wrong'? If you are depressed, you are 'wrong.' Your mindset is 'wrong', not positive, because instead of thinking about racking up achievements, all you think about is trying not to die and making the day-to-day business of stability a manageable reality.
So why are human beings who are 'wrong' born in the first place? Why are they encouraged to go on living? How much relief do things like relationships and love and passions really bring, when in the back of your mind you know that you are not normal? The next ambivalent occurrence to hit you will do just that - hit you, strike you, knock you off-balance altogether. While you're trying to deal with it, like a normal person, the white logic sets in, and that's when you remember. How can you? You're NOT a normal person.
Cancelled end-of-week commitments. Friend trying to convince me to come by text. She wrote 'I'm beggin u'. Yes, you are. Begging me to such an extent that you won't even ring me and ask me. You'll just concede limply, like you always do. Just another one of the many patterns in my life in which I awake to find myself trapped, every nerve to my mind freezing with white logic.
Everything falls away so alarmingly fast. How can I trust? Why can I not trust? In my gut is the terrible fear that suddenly re-emerges to question everything. The terrible fear that slaps optimism aside. The white logic that repeats, matter-of-factly, yet evil (I know it is evil, it must be) that the answer is death, death, death.
Found myself wondering what it might be like to be with a lover who hits you. Is the certainty what attracts other women, intelligent women, women who really ought to know better? The consistency? The knowledge, buried deep, that one day, they will either kill you or you'll snap? Is there a perverse empowerment in the knowledge that you have effectively chosen an embodiment of the end of your life, stretched the cord of your life out to the lunging executioner?
The bitterness was like acid in my dry mouth, I closed my mouth and felt the grain of it. The defeatism of my thoughts scared me. I told myself that I shouldn't think like that, that it's wrong. Yet a voice in my head told me, well you are 'wrong,' what are you going to do about it?
Broke down and cried. Bitterness burnt into anger, distilled into thick, thick nausea in my stomach. Cried hopelessly, laid on the bed, wishing for the courage to die. Went to the mirror. Stupid, tear-stained face. Cried some more, sat at the computer, trying to make myself type this.
Not exactly calm now, just sick. Typing this, as the only thing left for which I could live. A chronicle, a record of how it really was, of how utterly, purely unhappy I was for that time. Perversely, that is what I live for. 'Literature is analysis after the event'. In the end, no-one and nothing remains with me, for me. Except my chronicle.
5 comments:
You're a survivor. That's what you drilled into me once, so I presume you must have been talking from authority.
Art (writing) is one of the best reasons to live.
Thank you, Ala. Usually, as long as I write things down, I can find hope. Bizarrely enough, considering how pessimistic the end of the post sounds, it is actually pretty optimistic. I'm glad that you saw that.
'That's what you drilled into me once,'
I drilled it into you that I am a survivor? Very odd. :-D That doesn't sound like me. Or does it?
No, that I'm a survivor, hehe. You were trying to cheer me up. You couldn't have said something so life-affirming if you weren't also a survivor.
writing is catharsis, it contextualises and gives me perspective. I hope it does for you.
normal is a ridiculous concept in any case.
Hope you feel better now, been thinking of you, don't be a stranger.
Thanks, Ala and Saki.
Writing does help me to survive, 'contextualises and gives perspective' is a perfect description, thanks Saki.
Not meaning to be a stranger, just overburdened with work, sorry!
Post a Comment