So I am back to traditional blogging. Again. One year after I promised myself that I will go back to traditional blogging (after years of hiatus). One year after drunk-buying my own .org domain (which at that time I intended to use exclusively for ranting) – but never got to use it eventually.
I’ve been blogging since the 2000s. It was always how I dealt with depression. Somehow, it worked – especially back then when I couldn’t afford psychotherapy sessions, back when I couldn’t afford medicines.
Writing my crazies away had always been my favourite escape. And this year – as everyone would agree – is probably the craziest year in recent history. And the past few weeks had especially been bad – especially if you’re like me who’s hooked to global news.
As I was trying to figure out how to blog again, I revisited my old page (now set to private). And as I was scrolling down to read my old posts, I came across this post, which is basically the 2012 me talking to myself.
And for some unexplained sad reason, I feel like I can relate to the 2012 me:
You look back to who you were a year ago (and the years before that): you were a woman who make up for the things she can’t be and will never be by being filled with confidence, with passion, with enthusiasm, and with courage. With belief that you are just a radioactive bite-away from being the true-blue superhero of your own story. You were never afraid of new experiences and meeting new people and making friends. You were unapologetic for being who you are. Your idealism shines the brightest. You inspire people, and people inspire you.
Then several small things happened. One after the other, after the other. Small things.
Then you wake up to realise that you can no longer be the superhero of your own story. That you don’t even have your own story. You’re just a blurb or, perhaps, just one of the afterthoughts of one of the minor characters of another person’s story.
Is it because of incidents you have brought upon yourself? Is it because of how some people made you feel about yourself? That you’re not smart enough. That you’re growing fat. That you’re just one of the forgettable (and not properly-functioning) cogs in a machine.
And now you are afraid of far too many things. Afraid to make new friends, afraid of interacting with people you just met. Afraid to make efforts just to improve how you look (in fact, you are noticing that you tend to dress down nowadays). Afraid to try to learn new skills. Afraid to even post on Facebook (something which you frequently do before) because it might be too risque, or, perhaps, too stupid for other people (who would probably comment on how idiotic you are for that post). Afraid to think on your own, without other people’s permission. Afraid to love. Afraid to be physically intimate, because you know that no one should be trusted on that level. Afraid to dream big. Afraid to live.
Now, you’re not even the shadow of who you were a year ago. You no longer feel relevant in your own story. And now you’re constantly wondering why you’re still alive and breathing, when deep down, you feel as dead as all your dreams. And now, living for you just meant waiting for everything to end.