A summary of living inside a black hole. (Chapter 5-8).
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 5: Several Years in.
My heart gets weaker as I get arrhythmia a few times a day lately. My brain tends to forget even the smallest things that I usually could remember as if there’s a fog hovering above my head. That fog is probably made out of the ghosts of the evaporated memories. Damn. My breathing sometimes feels short without any particular reason. My injured right shoulder and left hip ache every now and then. I've worked out, really. I used to ride a bike to work and now regularly around my apartment complex. A little bit of walking around, too actually. But I just can feel it all and I know it's not because I'm older. It’s because what is rotting in my core is finally taking a toll on my physical being.
When it’s at its peak a.k.a relapse, my skin would feel so thin and my stomach would feel empty. I had started stress-eating in 2012 and then it has turned into binge-eating since 2016. To me, that habit is simply something that I do to fill the void. There’s nothing you have to think about when there’s food right in front of you. I could just keep eating so I didn’t have to deal with the pain. And yes, there’s a personal shame in that and I wish I didn’t have a complicated relationship with food.
I know that it’s dark and all but there’s a light leak in between that grey cloud that I couldn’t help but notice. Probably the bright side of this long-running depression is that I'm more mature in my writing because I basically feel it all. You can produce good things when you do it from the heart, no? Also thanks to several good words from my dear friends who are without, I wouldn’t be able to recognize my improvement. Sometimes even in the darkest days, I remember thinking that there's a sense of professionalism even though obviously I'm not in the industry yet-- which is a form of positive evaluation. I love love love that version of myself. Caroline the writer.
CHAPTER 6: Films are the Portals.
I remember that there was one guy that I matched with on a dating app. In his bio, it's written (not in the exact word), that he is happy with his life and has found a place. What he said immediately sent me into a reality check. Do I feel the same about my life? Do I feel happy about my reality? I told him that I wanted to make a shift from fashion to the film industry. Because fashion was something that my mum could afford to pay the education for and believed that I could thrive in. But my heart keeps going back to films. I can't stop thinking about it. I tend to get inspired like crazy. As if there's a constant firework in my brain whenever I think about the future in films, despite all of the uncertainty of course.
I could write for hours and feel content. I could join US-based masterclasses at 3 in the morning and feel renewed. I could feel happy and it all thanks to the motion picture industry. This tiny spark is apparently what keeps me going. It simply breathes me back to life. Like there’s a tiny bitty whisper, "Hey Iredon, it's okay to dream a little. It's okay to think about the future. Let's enjoy this little moment and be happy about it.". It's...genuine. I can be myself without the concept of rights or wrongs. Just...live.
Writing gives me an identity in a way. Better yet, it allows me to pour everything without judgement which cleanses my head. Whenever I’m writing, it almost feels like there’s a gate being opened, transporting me into the world that I’ve long visualized in my mind. For a stretch, sometimes when I absolutely have nothing much to do, I could re-read the story that I've written and be absolutely entertained. And combined that with films, now I can write screenplays, movie reviews, and movie content. Basically, anything that keeps me close to them and I am forever grateful for it.
CHAPTER 7: Self-sabotage.
The idea of ruining every single relationship (friend/romantic/professional) in your life, was never a good one. But unfortunately, that is my reality. I believe that’s exactly what I’ve been doing and probably will ruin more that is yet to come. No matter how good a person comes into my life, even the ones that knock on the door with love in both hands, there will always be things that I do that drive them away.
"I'm a terrible person", "I'm a failure", "I'm a disgrace". These are the mantras that I grew up with and these are told by the people who I was supposed to be able to lean on. As I was getting older, I was focused on getting revenge on them. I keep telling the truth for every gaslight that they’ve told me when I was a kid. Oh, you think I’m horrible? That fucking little kid was a horrible human being? Hell yeah, I’m horrible. I can show you how ugly I am that now I’m an adult. I will show you that I’m nothing compared to my sister. That I’m basically a satan because I didn’t go to church. That my body looks disgusting to you. It’s a buffet, baby. I will show you whatever the fuck you told that little kid everything that she wasn’t.
I’m still doing this, thinking that this is fun. Seeing their sorry ass and listening to their weak apologies. That focus pries me away from my well-being. I’m not even talking about mental health anymore. It’s about the way I see people, in general. I was so caught up in observing the traits in the new people that just have entered my life. Once I spot the similarities, that’s it. I will either push them away or hurt them in the name of justice. But fuck. I forgot about second chances and humane flaws. I simply equalize them all. And THIS is exactly the self-sabotage that I’ve been doing to myself and to the potential relationships that could’ve produced more happiness.
CHAPTER 8: Dreams of Parenthood.
There are numerous versions of happiness and they’re all valid. I’ve got a few of my own that is completely distinctive from each other. One of them is motherhood. One day I would think about living like a nomad somewhere in Europe or Asia and the other day living in a house with a loving partner. It’s a spacious place with a tiny library and a glasshouse on the ground floor. Upstairs just across our bedroom, there are two or three smaller bedrooms and they’re occupied by the smaller us.
Listening to them, helping them through invisible struggle, teaching them the things that I know; would be the joy of my life. I can do it with my whole heart and brain and I don’t have to worry knowing that my partner putting the same passion into raising them. Fuck I'm tearing up just by thinking about it. Realistically I can't afford any kids right now, but if there's a wishlist of the wildest dreams that I'm allowed to list down, then yes, having children is on it.
Seeing the little person that you love more than life must’ve triggered a armour that you didn’t know you have. Protecting them from the pain doesn’t mean not letting them experience it. But you don’t CAUSE it. I’ll never understand the abuse that I had to witness and experience. But right now when it comes to parenthood, I’m hanging into the idea of starting anew with someone where both of us are packed with a shit-load amount of love, health, knowledge, and stability.
(To be continued).
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