A summary of living inside a black hole. (Chapter 1-4).
I'm writing this specifically as a journal to myself, in my blog. I may or may not regret this but writing is my current respirator and here I am trying to embrace the air once again, one slow deep breath at a time.
CHAPTER 1: Leaving
In 2015, I had stopped breathing. I'd given up the spirits that had been lifting me up when tough. From that point on, whenever things get difficult, I just… drag myself through it. Feeling every single wrenching pain until bedtime. There's a loop of questions going through my mind, days and nights: When will this end? Why am I so flawed? Am I going to have to keep changing for people? But I've been doing that since I was a kid? Shit, I'm not fit for this. For life.
It was around 6:30 pm while I was standing on the edge of the balcony on the 21st floor of my then apartment. I hadn't eaten anything that day but still went to work. But I remember thinking enough is enough, it's been going on too fucking long until the point it was numbing. And then my phone rang from the inside of my almost empty room. I tried to ignore it, waiting for it to end because I was in the middle of trying to end something else. When it almost died, I finally stepped down the balcony and picked it up. That was mum, asking what I was doing at the moment. Of course, I told her, "nothing".
What happened in that year was probably a giant billboard sign of farewell, leaving the last remaining of serotonin town and heading straight into the deep trench of despair. Little did I know, that evening had also marked the first of many attempts to come. Since I've come to that realization and chose to be honest to myself, I started acknowledging that I've been constantly struggling to survive. My head is above the water, my hands and feet are waddling like crazy under, trying to bring myself up. After all these years of trying to be "right", I'm still drowning.
CHAPTER 2: The Iceberg
It was on Christmas eve in 2020 when I had just come back from a little lunch with my sister. Not so long after, I had a relapse. It wasn't without a reason, of course. And this time, she saw it. After several years of me sounding about seeking professional help, that day was the last straw. So she'd told me to clean up and take a rest because she'd booked me a shrink. She was with me on my first appointment the next day. The lighting in the hospital’s waiting room was warm white, the leather sofas were in beige and marked X's for social distancing purposes; the carpet was in the bold earth-coloured wave pattern. That room and that moment of waiting...was surprisingly rather comforting to me.
I came in and the shrink introduced herself. I asked if we could do this without any prescription, she said “let's see”. So she asked what is it that bothers me. I started bawling at the same time answering. Years of painful memories and words that I had unintentionally kept with me while growing up suddenly bled out entirely. I feel like if there was two of me, one of me would be hugging the other me. I basically recited every word. Fuck my life, it was vivid. I was 25 years old but I remembered what they had said to me and what he had done to mom, while I was at "home". I could remember almost everything, even to the earliest one that was mentally recorded by the 3-year-old me.
I told my shrink that I thought I would grow out of it all. Instead, I grew into it. As an adult, I see everything and everyone even the ones that came with love, as impossible and with an agenda. Fuck them. Because if "family" is not my safe place, why would the outside world be? She then told me that childhood trauma is an especially delicate case. Because it's like the skin that shapes your entire personality. It's a mould. While at the same time, you're trying to grow into an adult with your very own version of happiness, ideal life, aspirations. She told me that I can heal, but it takes a long time. Because then again, peeling your own skin is not a fun thing to do. But in this case, you will have to.
For the first time in my life, I felt like the iceberg that has been sitting, on the top of my head, started crumbling. It’s not entirely, but it’s the beginning of the realization that I didn't know that I was allowed to become my own person, didn’t know that there’s normalcy to “everything is wrong about me”; also I didn't know my suffering is valid and the best part is that I have a chance to get out of it.
CHAPTER 3: Pills for the Feels
Deriving from the trauma, she had diagnosed me with clinical depression, anxiety, PTSD and an eating disorder. A lot, eh? I know, I know. I'm not a soldier who's back from a war. But I guess it's a sign that some people can take only a certain much. I didn't tell her that I had also developed a skin condition called dermatographia since I was 21. The 3 dermatologists that I’d checked myself into, had tried to convince me that I had it because of stress. I was like: "Nah, it's dust". But hey, after 7 consecutive appointments and 2 lab tests, I've finally accepted the real reason.
The medical diagnosis from my shrink is only the surface, of course. Inside me there’s still a hideous root from which have grown into several branches, they're all named differently and has to be cut down. I don't wanna go back to 2015, so from now on I have to be my own pruners.
I was given a prescription for 3 drugs, I remember their names by heart from the very first time I went into the queue in the hospital's cashier on Christmas day. (I can’t disclose the names to avoid misuse). One was an antidepressant, the other one was for anxiety disorder, and another one was for "pressing the symptoms of schizophrenia". Hahaha. What the fuck. And shit, I couldn't write. Normally, there's a constant movie scene entering my mind before I take a note and eventually assemble a screenplay out of it. That 3rd medicine might've repressed my burdensome memories away, but apparently also my creativity.
I consulted my shrink and eventually lowered the dose. I remember that after 3 weeks into the treatment, there was this one sweet-almost-sinful moment, I stopped by the front of my laundry and murmured to myself "I'm lucky. I get to seek help and receive it.". I even smiled at the pile of dirty shirts because of that thought. Even though I couldn't function perfectly in my creative perusal, this is a new, genuine feeling that I didn't know I deserve to have. I took a note on my Keep app on my phone whenever that jolt of happiness strikes, so I have a reminder that I am probably worth fighting for.
CHAPTER 4: That Chuckling Fella
I wish people understand that a mental problem is a health problem. It takes a toll on someone's daily life, and hell, many have gone to the other side because of it. It's not a trend or a joke. Most of all, it's not for attention. I know I'm funny. I love shitposting, popping jokes including about myself. But at the same time, I've been living in the most rotten place in my head. I understand that having a mental health problem might draw people away. I used to be scared about that and actually have experienced it. But fuck it, I've started counting on those who stay instead.
One day in the second half of 2021, I reunited with a relatively close pal of almost 10 years. (Gender undisclosed). Throughout the years we've exchanged supports, hung out, and checked in on each other when we’re away. I thought they were one of my safe places because I've become one when they went through one of the worst periods of their life, several years prior. That day we told each other our life updates. I intentionally put the shrink thingy last, because we haven't physically met for quite a long time.
It naturally came up and I told them that I went to a shrink and been on medication. They chuckled and I froze. I immediately regretted telling and did my best to answer their following questions that were mostly decorated with: “Really?”, "...for real?", “Nah…”. Apparently, to them, it was bizarre. They dismissed it shortly and changed the topic to their yet another failed business venture.
I took our meeting that day as a sign that it’s time for one of us to drive away and that should be me. Because I knew that I could lend my fucking ears and empathy to them every single time, but apparently I was not receiving them in return when I needed some. I still believe in giving and taking, instead of constantly doing the former, even to the closest people. So for the years of friendship that could survive for the good times only, I guess many thanks, my love. But...adios.
(To be continued).
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