I want to fall in love. I want not to fall in love. Being liked in return is almost strange, I don’t know what to do to about it. I am about to sabotage myself, I know it. I want to be careful this time. I want to watch myself. I am desensitizing myself and it is dangerous. To a point it will work for me to hold back but it’s not who I am. I want to enjoy each moment cause this is a short journey, trip and experience. I just want to love and not feel the consequences later. I want to share my music and talk about hot showers.
Short and sweet. Somehow it feels pointless.
I’ve started dreaming again. I don’t like dreaming. I do have good dreams but most are so complicated and leave me disoriented. I can’t remember this ones,maybe a small detail like I was in a childhood home or there was a snake.
I have to keep reminding myself not to harden with the world. Not to be defined by omstandighede. (Afrikaans for circumstances or conditions).
I can’t even tell my parents what I go through. God forbid they find out and then I have to see how helpless they are. How angry they become not to have noticed or when they lash out out of confusion that makes me not talk at all. How it is heart breaking not having the guts to talk because of the words you will get,”I’m sorry.” The pity,the helplessness. The look of confusion. It’s sickening.
I am numb.
I wish I was able to aptly describe it.
I don’t know how I do it each time I break. I’m not sure the pieces have joined the way they used to be. Like a beta robot that is being tweaked to see how this way and that way can work.
It doesn’t take long before I reach out to a friend that this has happened to me, I am hurting. Again. I have been betrayed by close people in my life. Again.
I am afraid to keep reaching out. I am afraid to say, “I’m actually not okay.” But they said, “I’m needy,suicidal and just wants to die.” So,how,please tell me, do I reach out again. Do I keep talking because silence has been worked for to be eradicated.
I have a small knit circle but my trust is broken. I do trust them but I can’t help but watch my back. I’m wary,not of them but of every one.
I have wanted to be rid of anyone close to me. I don’t want to keep feeling guilty, a burden,the one with the mental health issues,the unstable one..
I wonder how things would be. Would my mother still make chapattis knowing a couple more mouths would feed on them or Faith would be there to say how the smell of ghee comes through? Would my brother call in the middle of the day to say I was checking in to see what you were up to? Would they remember how I fell off the chair for no push at all? How I asked to be let go because I couldn’t any more? When I knew I would never be invited to any other event. When it won’t matter that I didn’t make the bed any more or I didn’t clean my cup of tea,or I didn’t reply your last text because. When I know I don’t belong, no matter who,where,which space. The loneliness that’s excrutiating but I will smile at you because you look like the sunshine after a long cloudy morning. I wonder if you’ll remember my drunken ways and silent laugh after I’ve done some stupid shit but really I’m drinking because I cannot hear again how intense I am or how quiet I am or why don’t you smile a little bit more? Will it make more sense when you remember why I just wanted to be held? Why I just wanted to be kissed? A connection to another human or a reality that’s right here on earth. Bring me back to earth. I hope it makes sense the random late night texts of I love you or I’m thinking of you. I want to be happy without it costing me. I want to have sex because it feels good and not because my skin is aching for contact and selfish reasons that leads to unsatisfaction.
Will it make sense? Will it make sense the long hugs I give? How I notice the brown eyes and black ring around them? How the iris looks like sand dunes, How I notice how you don’t want to let go but won’t admit to it to anyone. Will it make sense why I curled up next to you or hardened up when you tried to curl up next to me?
The house was dark even though there was a half moon outside. I heard the door open and I turned my head towards it. I wanted to open my eyes but I couldn’t. It felt like it was a tall slender figure coming towards me against the dim light through the door. My heart started beating fast but I did not talk. The figure walked towards me and sat at the edge of the bed and looked at me. I asked,
“Who are you? I cannot open my eyes.”
She took my face in her cold hands and lifted me off the pillow gently,she was smiling,then she said,
“I wanted to check in on you,I miss you.”
“I’ve just realized I can’t tell your voice in the dark.” I felt disappointed.
Finally I could open my eyes,I was just dreaming and it felt like an out of body experience. There was no one else in the room.
I am in a state of melancholy, filled with apathy and the wish to be by myself. I travelled home for a few days but I cannot seem to make any conversation. I have barely talked too. I discovered Modigliani today. He died too, at 35. Any past artist I feel a connection to or I can relate to died young and their lives weren’t that brilliant: Mapplethorpe, Vincent Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath. He is described as ‘a passionate individual with a decadent, self- destructive lifestyle’. My, don’t even know where to start on that. Does being an artist come with all this, the whole package of..mess. Do they have narratives on how awful and beautiful it is to feel everything? To have no one understand you. You try to talk to one of your best friends about this but they bring a story on how they know someone who loved drinking so much, he had a lot of money but he realized he was going to die but now all he does is water. Good for you, I’m proud of you. That probably sounds sarcastic but it isn’t.There’s constantly a war in my mind. I’d love it to stop, I’d love to have better things to describe my mind times like this. I want to go a whole week without being disappointed that I woke up. Thinking of how all these artists have an almost similar narrative before I even knew about them, before I was even born. What is cliché? Is it a fundamental characteristic to be mentally ill and be an artist? When thoughts of..I might not grow old, I might not actually make it. Then I feel this sense of peace come over me. There will be an end to this madness: the constant fight not to relapse, an end to being a fuck up, an end to be being destructive, an end to the thirst of being intoxicated because it can silence my voices and delusions and I can live. I am normal when intoxicated. (Why do I have to be normal.) I won’t feel the crashing feels of love, I always love, understand, love love love unconditionally like please stop, you’ll still get hurt however unconditional you are. But I’m not like that, I can’t stop being vulnerable and not everybody receives you the way you are. I want an end to the fight to remain soft.
One day I won’t need to act normal, I won’t have to be amoebic, I won’t have to say, ”I can’t defend myself right now because what I did happened, it wasn’t my fault but I take full responsibility”, I won’t have to keep apologizing just because. An end to the rapid cycling bipolar episodes. I want a morning that I have not cried. I want peace. I just want peace.
I am love.
It is a ludicrous thing to say but I believe it. All this romantic platonic love I have for people makes me feel good. It satisfies me the way a single relationship cannot. I am not afraid to express my affections to the people close to me. I want to experience moments with different people that I meet randomly and by chance. Making every meet count and them seeing me as an experience. Making them feel something new,giving them something to think about, seeing them let go and be open with me,letting them realize what and who they can be: mad.
Sometimes I stumble upon a song that rocks my world. ‘Rock’ my world is not the word I want to choose though. The feeling is more of that moment when the beats reach your ears and somehow your mouth opens and eyes close and your face turns up and it feels like you are breathing in new air and this warm feeling like you are glowing and once again you know what love feels like.
Every single person is different in their own right. No one person is normal. Each person is mad in one way or another. I accept that I am unique in my own way. I know I am a highly sensitive person, I am creative, I see the good in a person first no matter what, I am fundamentally good, I love unconditionally and I can get crazy.
I often go against the norm and I see how I get treated for it. Why can’t you be normal for once?! I hear. Being highly sensitive it affects me but over the years I have learnt to get over it,some days it’s easier some days aren’t.
I do not have the time to keep picking myself up from rejection and or judgement from people who are meant to love me for me,not accept me, but love me for who I am. When I was in hospital my mother told me some women asked her if I was in a cult because of my tattoos and that I need prayers. Then my friends showed up with face piercings and body modifications and tattoos and you could see the nods.
You can’t chose the family you are born into, but I am going to make my own family. I have a family, I don’t call them friends. I am choosing them. They have chosen me.