Mary Oliver, Here’s my puny but precious life…

“Tell me, what it is you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? “Mary Oliver

Well Mary, I can’t say there’s much I’ve already done with my one wild and precious life for I’m just twenty three as of a month ago. But let’s say it ‘s all the life I’ll ever get to live. Let’s picture this as the only life I’ve lived and that be enough. We may as well not plan for a future that’s yet to be lived, am I right? So for my puny little life, I will have quite the childhood. I’ll try to find the words to sum it all up but I’ll always come up short. It will be a mesh of a little bit of everything; it will not have been the best years of my life but it will be the years I’ll wish to have held onto more. It will be the years I should never have taken for granted, but still somewhat did. As a kid, I’ll be my best version of prime & proper, at least to the world I’ll try to be. Back at my house, I’ll be the biggest pain in the ass and my arch nemesis will be none other than my dear ole mum, God bless her soul… She’ll take the blunt end of my onset of puberty and will match my energy of being a serious pain in the ass. But despite it all, I’ll adore her existence like that of a god. She’ll be to me like every mother is to their child, their first god and their lifeline. I will not realize just how much the world is unfair to you until the day my lifeline will be taken away from me. Simply, I will learn of one of life’s toughest experiences which will alter the entire basis and trajectory of my life.

Like it is for most people, those lucky enough to have the blessing of family, I’ll live for my family. With one sibling and a single father, I’ll pour out every bit of love in me to them, which now that I think about it, might explain why it will be hard to love anyone else with the intensity and magnitude that some will seek from me. I will adore my family and be in their embrace through every day spent of my puny but precious little life. My dad will be that friend you can’t quite get enough of but still gets annoying every so often. He’ll have my back always and I’ll grow to protect him to the best of my little ability. As for my sister, she will be my best friend, my companion, my roommate and my all rounded life partner. We won’t have much of separate lives since we will be often together too much of the time. She will be my provider for quite the while and I’ll ride it out till what I hope will be the start of my own adulthood. She’ll complain I eat a lot but continue to feed me regardless. What can I say Mary, a girl’s gotta eat to grow. Sometimes indulging into her cravings a little bit more than she should. All my life’s significance, regardless of whether puny or not, my sister will be there for them. She’ll cheer me on and help me brush of the dust from the times I’ll have fall off my feet. She’ll vicariously live through me in my relationship escapades for they will be quite a few… Mary, you may be quite surprised by just how much I’ve experienced in the realm of “love”…I will trust no one more than I trust her and I’m uncertain I’ll ever know what it’s like to have anyone closer to me than her.

I will go through highschool and regard it as the worst years of my life. I’ll hate every day of those agony ridden days. I’ll want to escape to my dreams every day of my life for those four years and I’ll have my heart broken by the impossibility of my dreams ever coming true. I will peg on God to pay His dues to me even despite knowing deep down, He owed me nothing. I’ll walk down the streets of my school every evening looking up at the stars and hoping against everything that the brightest star of all will mean my redemption from my misery. It will surprise me that despite feeling incapable of feeling anything else besides sorrow, I’ll grow to love a girl immensely in the midst of it all. I’ll use her as a distraction from my grief but then, my emotions towards her will envelope me like a dome. She will eventually become all I’ll ever think of in those years and even a few years after that. I will feel hate and this wildly twisted obsession over her that will force me to think again over what I thought I knew about my sexuality. She’ll become the true bane to my existence and I will not know till date whether it was all just a projection of my grief or I just had the worst case of adolescence. Even later in life, I will still regard this girl as quite the enigma. I will have gotten better reins of my emotions when it comes to her but traces of her will still linger and hover over my conscience. I will complete highschool with the passion to charge the world. I will have my dreams hanging from my shoulders and what will then be a well sort out plan to kick start the dreams into motion. I will then learn that it’s a lot harder than I might have thought. My passions and my sorrow will set sail my career into psychology.

I will go through college and have quite the silent rollercoaster. Silent because not a lot of people can attest to anything major happening in my life but it being a rollercoaster because I certainly will have my fair share of things happen in those years. I will loose my virginity in college, and it won’t be memorable. It will not mean much and neither will it be some instrumental rite of passage for me. It will happen and I won’t care to much over it… that’s all that will be to it. I will have boyfriends, and a man-child friend too. My first relationship will be, for lack of a better word, meh. Though at the beginning, I wouldn’t have considered it so, for I will have wanted more from it. It will be based on sex marathons and on and off breaks. In time, it will be the trigger to a very uneventful onset of my first depression. It will kick-start a tirade of emotions, downhill turmoils and a whole lot of anxiety. It’s in college where my battles with mental health will become the fore front of my life. Depression will become my shadow and I will loose recognition of myself without it…Before I can even delve further into what my life will become in regards to my mental health, let me tell you about the man friend I will be crazy enough to date… It will also be in my early twenties, when I’ll have my interest picked on matters BDSM. In the case you’re not aware Mary, this is a kink in sex for those who are unconventionally woke. It will be in my venture of this kink that will lead me to meeting and somewhat dating a man-child who will then be 44 at the time. I know what you’re probably thinking but trust me, at the time it won’t seem as absurd as it might now. He will at the beginning feel like a breath of fresh air (no pun intended in regards to him being old and all..) and I will be enthralled by him and his take on the world. His bluntness will at the start look like something to be admired but it will soon wither in my eyes for it will not go unnoticed to me how emotionally dry he will be. As he himself will say, “I’ve got the emotional depth of a pin cushion”. I consider myself lucky for I will actually know what a pin cushion is like. After that, we will end things between me and this man but we will keep in touch and that will be a mistake I will soon learn dearly from.

I will go through life one day at a time…I will experience a mental agony that nothing will have ever prepared for me. I will learn to cope with this said agony in ways that will leave permanent scars, both on my skin and on my mind. I will still continue to dream and be a little girl on the inside. I will go through life plagued with anxiety that I’m never doing enough, that I’m not the best at anything that I do. I will still keep trying regardless, even when I will want to choose death over life. As I said earlier Mary, my life is still puny and hasn’t matured as much so there’s only so little I can tell you of how my life turns out… I will try my best to write more of how my life goes, maybe when I’m thirty, I will write this again. I will to you how my puny but precious wild life will have gone down. Hopefully, it won’t be so puny anymore.

“Inspired from the book ” It’s okay to laugh ,crying is cool too” I haven’t even completed it yet but I’m sure it’ll be a wonderful read.

Baby Daddy to the Rescue

So tonight, something quite weird but cool I guess, happened to me.

To give a short back story to what was my intended action earlier, I’ve been trying to really dissociate the past week. I’ve been dealing with heavy burden like thoughts that I surely just didn’t & still don’t have it in me to handle let alone deal with (now when I think about it, handle and deal with, same thing). I’ve been trying to space out if I may call it so and tonight being a similar kind of night, I experienced the urge to self harm which I haven’t done in like the past two, three months or so. I quit keeping count of how long it’s been… I’m not proud that I settled myself into doing it earlier but yeah, I was going to do it and then drown out the thoughts from my head by numbing my emotions.

As I was settling myself to doing the deed, I’d just happened to put on the DVD player and I’d just put up Baby Daddy, the series about Emma, Riley, Ben, Tucker and Bonny, forgot the tall guy’s name (Ben’s brother)… As I was just about to go on ahead, I got distracted by the movie and it wasn’t even two minutes in, I was laughing, like really laughing… Forgive me if this sounds morbid but allow me to paint the picture in your lovely heads.. I was holding up a razor blade to my arm while laughing my heart out…again, my apologies for the messed up imagery. In that moment, I genuinely couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore, like for a second there I was like I need not get distracted from what I was about to do. I had everything set right there, the razor and the after care kit (yes, I have an after care routine for when I self harm, I’m not entirely a mad person, I’m just one with hygiene standards) but anyway, yeah. I had an urge and I was intent on fulfilling it… At least until, Baby Daddy, completely pulled me out of that head space. I started laughing at how absurd it felt to be holding a razor to my arm when the emotion behind it was no longer there and as ridiculous as this may sound, things got too weird and I just couldn’t anymore. So I packed my kit and stored everything back and resumed watching the show.

Two hours and season one down, here I am writing of that weirdly saving encounter I just had. A part of me is grateful that I didn’t go through with harming myself because it would probably have kicked off a habit I am still very much battling down and every so often have the reigns over. I wish I’d say it was some form of higher power that allowed me to find a disc that’s been years old in the corner of my sister’s room to which I came across as I was technically stealing her cotton wool for what was to be another scar on my arm. What are the odds, the disc was not scratched up and had a series that’s turned out to be my saving grace for the night. I’m in an entirely better mood for what it’s worth so I guess I owe this night to season one of Baby Daddy. Y’all should definitely check it out, might work some miracle for you too.

Oh yee of little to no control…

” Life is an infinite loop of uncontrollable events ..from the book Note to Self by Connor Franta”

I can’t control the weather… and in the same likeness, I have no imminent control over my fears & anxiety. The world around me could perceive that I do and maybe to a degree, they aren’t entirely wrong but when in that head space, the there & now of my fears, I’m paralyzed completely by my inability to see past what brings me absolute terror. From what I know, my fears didn’t just up and sprout out of the blues. They weaved about in me like a small seedling, deeply rooted from the scars left about by experiences which again, I had absolutely no reign over. I cannot control my infinite fear of loss, that’s there to stay. I’ll never get out of the fear of having my heart try survive it’s existence without my family alive… For my anxieties, I’m like a map with no compass. I don’t feel like I’m aware on where to start. I am a bundle of buzzing nerves with no on and off switch. I can’t absolutely shake the anxiety that it is to just be alive, to merely exist as myself and live through trying to fulfill every ounce of pressure placed on my measly weak shoulders.

I have no absolute control over time, for it is more than just the continued spectrum of occurrences, it is more than the minute or the hour or the day. I could decide on what to do in the next two minutes but consequentially, I hold little power on the likelihood of my decision going through or not happening at all. Control is ever so little, especially since it was never much yours from the very start. I have no control over my unfulfilled dreams or goals, especially those yet to be achieved. They may weigh the most heavy on me but there’s little to nothing I can do about them. Like my sister knowingly teased me earlier by saying to me that, “there’s no degree for you at the supermarket, right next to the isle of Krackles waiting on you to come pick it up, you’re gonna have to wait to study for it to get it.” (krackles are my favorite chips.) It is a helpless feeling having no immediate control over an aspiring future, a future that isn’t promised but just desired. I am not one for the virtue of patience which quite frankly irritates me every so often that things and life can’t be sped up, at any cost. I’m not a live in the moment kind of girl, even when I know, there’s no better time than the present. Today like many of other days in the past, I was hit with the intensity of just how little control over the uncertainty of the future I can change or alter.

I have no control… No control of the haunted memories of the past. Of the little girl who’s soul and being felt always forlorn. Of my memories of her as she envisioned what her journey to school was hopefully gonna be but didn’t quite turn out as she might have hoped. That the rise of a new dawn would in hope bring in her the warmth from the sun into her measly heart. To the memories of a sadness that couldn’t quite be shaken down by the simple joy of being a child. Even then, there wasn’t much control this little girl had, it never was in her hands, and despite the lapse of time, she’s still shaky on that control even now that’s she’s me and somewhat grown up. I have no control of how life went down for that little girl. To the years closed in on herself, to the loss of her protector, to the loss of her identity or even to the last meal she had last night for dinner. No control at all.

When I think I’ve ran out of things I have no control over, I realise that it’s quite the opposite actually… I cannot seem to go through each and every thing that’s actually beyond my control…

For now, I conclude with the fact that I don’t have control of what others may perceive of me. I doubt quite a lot whether anyone truly has control of this specific aspect of things. I’ve battled with this all my life, especially since my nature has had me be a people please (if I could call myself that). I admit, it’s not the best perk especially since it goes hand in hand with my immense fear of being in anyone’s bad books. Truthfully, even i realize how hard it is to juggle those two character traits about myself especially with the knowledge that’s there’s little to zero control I have over how they are retaliated by others. We all know this, we are all aware of how little power we have over what people think about us even when all we can do is wish and hope that it’s all good things. I’ve shoved down emotions and feelings just so they won’t have to ‘rock the boat’ with anyone. I’ve grown to resent those I love and somewhat care for just cause they have consistently pushed a button of mine that I’ve not gotten around to confronting them about. It’s genuinely the worst trait about me. I’m a big pushover and I wish I could say I knew how to change that but I don’t. But regardless of it all, I still wouldn’t have control over anyone’s thought in relation to me. I can’t bend anyone to feel a certain way about me, even if I wanted and you know what, that’s okay. It’s absolutely okay that I don’t have that kind of power because it shouldn’t bother me at all (even if it does a little) but it shouldn’t… It’s part of free will. Therefore, it’s okay that others may beg to differ on what they can or can’t control but for me, it often feels a lot like there’s only so little that’s actually in my hands. Who knows, maybe along the line, I’ll work on learning more of those things that actually are in my control.

Easing up just a little on my perfectly imperfect soul.. ⏯️🛎

You ever have those aspects of yourself that you’re not entirely sure are a good thing? Well I do, at least. Lots of them actually. I’ve got this specific one that I wouldn’t consider the most obvious or detectable to those who know me but don’t get to spend enough time around me to be able to pick up the said trait. For someone closer, in this case my sister who’s also my roommate has grown accustomed to it and isn’t quite fond of it. In regards to it, it makes me the Debbie Downer sister, the most up tight, the less spontaneous, oh, and the worrier too… I wouldn’t really say that I hate this specific aspect of myself fully, it grounds me to an extent and anyways, I’m only regarding it now as a flaw on the occasional times when I wish it didn’t restrain me as immensely as it does… Okay okay, enough of the beating around the bush nonsense and I’ll get right to just saying exactly what it is this said aspect of myself is. I believe that in lay man’s language, what I’ve got going on is the character aspect of a perfectionist. I’m not 100% sure whether in most cases, one’s actions that may fall under the bracket of a perfectionist are excusable entirely and whether it eliminates one from some form of fault. This isn’t to mean that wrong actions are meant to be absolved just cause one couldn’t help their perfectionist nature… and now I’m getting derailed from what I initially meant to write in regard to this insistent need of mine to do everything by the book…back to focus.

Take for example, my last statement right there. It’s absolutely okay that I write whatever comes to mind and not feel like it’s some crime I’ve committed that requires some form of punishment from god knows who or what. I’ve said it to myself before that I wish I could make my writing absolutely spontaneous but despite trying to keep up with that notion, minutes before I was able to write all this down here, I couldn’t help myself but scribble down a few highlights on this exact topic in the fear that I’d screw it up if I left it to the fate of my mind to remember exactly what my line of thought was at the very beginning. Pardon me if I hardly sound like I’m making any sense. Technically, my incessant need to have everything in some prime and proper version of things does piss on my parade a lot more than I’d like to admit.

Do you know what’s most absurd about it to me in regard to this, it’s the crazy notion in my mind that’s convinced of some form of reprimand in the case that things aren’t done in the ‘rightful’ manner. My conscious mind believes that whatever action that’s to be undertaken, if slightly bent from its set out route of focus, there will be life changing repercussion…Maybe in some cases, there might stand the chance of the odds being in favour of things needing to be done exactly as they are supposed to be done but on the off chance that the world won’t end if I don’t do things all perfect, it makes it direly impossible to have spontaneity ever happen to me. I cannot begin to elaborate just how much of this aspect of myself is fully embedded in me. It’s in everything little thing I can think of that I do. From the way I talk, to the way I carry myself around in front of people, to the way I arrange my things in my wardrobe, to the way I write… It goes on and on. It’s even trickled down to a hobby that’s absolutely supposed to relax me and completely take the edge off which is what has led me to being here and writing it down. Colouring. Yes, you read that right. I recently started colouring and had been yearning to do it for a while now because I thought to myself, why not, seems like it would be quite fun and it would bring the carefree child in me out a little bit more, to reminisce on easier times in life through bringing colour to portraits & pictures. But guess what, even that had to get trampled over by my need to do things right… I was just colouring a while ago and I couldn’t help but feel upset that I wasn’t colouring one of the pictures in my colouring book exactly as the object usually is in reality. When I first started, I’d insist on checking exactly what colours a certain picture was so that I’d colour exactly in the same manner. Rather than embracing the spontaneity of creating my own art in colour, I was anxious that by some random chance, someone would pick up my colouring book and question me for not colouring respectively as it should be. The whole point of me colouring was never to seek out perfection but despite that, I can’t seem to shake off the idea that everything needs to fall exactly into its right place or in this case, its right colour.

Like I said, to some extent, I’ve grown accustomed to it because without a doubt, I’ve never been one to live on the edge of life. I’ve always played things safe, never to purposely or intentionally rock the boat. Being a perfectionist has helped somewhat calm my raging anxiety over things beyond my control though it is also technically built on the very said anxiety. I truly believe that if I was less of an anxious person, I’d be more relaxed, maybe Zen even. Maybe then, I’d care less about the fear of an absurd repercussion than trying to have everything fall into its proper place. I’m sadly a real major stickler for order and despite how much I’d wish to change that, I think it’s best to admit that it will take a whole lot to rid me of what can be now termed second nature to me. Gotta admit though, I wish my mind, soul and body would just go with the flow you know… Sore away with the wind, wherever it may take me without the fear of a possible anxiety attack. What can I say, it’d be nice to have my own nature try not wring the breath out of my neck in the face of a little imperfection.

P. s This here is a picture of my current remotely acceptable coloured picture, not sure whether it’s a smurf or a gnome but I wanna hope that it’s colours match those acceptable to the gods of perfectionism. 😌

..another P.S …So apparently, from Pinterest quotes, it’s not at all a good thing to be a perfectionist. It’s very flawed seemingly. I’m not here to justify it’s good or bad aspects, maybe just to reflect on its disadvantage a little, at least when it’s not being life threatening.

It is absolutely Okay

It is absolutely okay that the current and present feel in my heart right now is freedom. Freedom of letting go what I couldn’t salvage or save. Freedom from the bond that was genuinely holding me down and caging me in.

It is okay that I chose myself other than the other person. It is okay that I feel conflicted over whether it truly is okay that I made the choice to walk away for the reasons that I chose.

I may have wondered whether it was the right thing to do but I can’t refute how good it is to be by myself. I was scared to feel lonely but now I know that being lonely isn’t what’s meant to kill me.

It’s absolutely okay that I have no immediate plans for my future. It is okay that I feel conflicted over not having the said plans. I’ve had immense amounts of pressure weigh in on my shoulders over getting a head start on my journey after school and it’s all but made me want to loose my mind further down than I already have.

It’s been hard having to justify to everyone, and most especially to myself that I don’t feel ready to just up and start on to the next thing that is meant to kick start ‘adulthood’ for me.

The goal on everyone’s mind is to have me fall in line just as is expected of me to now look for a job or start on a career I in the least feel qualified enough to embark on. I know it may take a while to believe in my decision and feel ‘unwavered’ over making it but it is absolutely okay that I’m indecisive over the next course of my life.

It isn’t a fault not to have my shit together and that maybe, what I really need to care about isn’t how to convince others of my choices but find contentment in the fact that they are my decisions and it’s okay that they don’t and won’t always please everyone.

It is absolutely okay that I feel lost in my passions. The feeling of not having enough to turn my writing into a best seller with just a wave of a wand. It is okay that I feel under-qualified in my craft and that I know it will take a lot more of me building my self believe than learning how to write more artistically pleasing.

It is okay that I hope to put my writing out there, for the world to read and find solace, joy and beauty in my work. I aspire to write and never grow tired of finding more words to describe the world and my thoughts on everything. It is okay that all my plans feel very slow progressed.

They might not be taking place at the said speed of lightning but they will happen in due time. It is okay that I’ll sometimes feel like they are but just a dream, a dream I still very much peg my trust in.

Therefore, it is with absolute certainty that it’s okay that I’ve still got a lot to learn, a lot to experience, a lot more to write… and as long as I can and will write, then it is okay that it doesn’t have to all happen now.

Despite the uncertainty of things, it is absolutely okay that I’m still learning about my mental health.

I may not always be the best judge when it comes to deciphering whether everything I feel is bound to the black hole of depression but it’s okay that I’m still trying to figure it out.

I know I’m not always right and I stand the chance to be more wrong most times than I will be right but despite it, I’m okay with learning through the act of sometimes being scared and over reading into things.

My journey through struggle has shed enough light that fear will cripple me a lot when it comes to understanding my mental health. It’s okay that I don’t know what always to feel when things get hard for me mentally.

…and finally, it is absolutely OK that my writing won’t always make sense… That I won’t always feel my best about what I write or how I write. It is okay that my styles of writing differ from those whose writing I admire the most.

In time, I trust that I’ll see the beauty in the formation of my words and in the style I chose to let them flow. It is okay that I’m often unimpressed by my own writing and also occasionally pat myself in the back for even being able to put two words together that make some form of sense.

It is okay to feel doubt in myself in regard to my craft, it gives room for me to push myself further at trying to better myself. It’s okay that there’s always room for growth…and it’s absolutely okay that I wrap this up here and retire to sleep.

Letter to 30 year old me.

Dear Mercy,

With a cigarette in my mouth and a glass of water in my hand, I’m writing to you what’s on my mind because we both know, a lot of it tends to easily fly itself out of my mind and that my thinking capacity tends to slow itself more than that which I can retain. This isn’t like those wishful letters people write to themselves telling about how much they hope for the best for you. No, this isn’t a love letter to you and I don’t expect from you then to believe it ever would have been a love letter. Here now, especially in the matters of love, I hope you’ll have unlocked those secrets that remain a mystery to me on what truly loving oneself means. I don’t know if I’ll ever be worthy of loving the ever living being that is. I can’t promise you that you will either. It’s come to my knowledge that I feel love for everyone else before having found out if I can ever deem it worthy to reciprocate the same said love to myself. I call it a mystery because it seems hell might freeze over before I can tap into whatever valve that others have, to show just an enough amount of care for myself. Who knows, maybe you’ll have gotten better at it or maybe you’ll still be searching through every crevice for it. I personally ain’t even searching for it myself, just in case you might not recall. I seem to have found contentment in life’s little pleasures, asking for something more grand would be pushing my luck a little too far. Love is too grand for my old little soul.

It’s only a guess of mine but hopefully you’ll handle things better than I do. As of now, it’s still a wager on whether you’ll live to exist by the time you’re thirty. Don’t be doubtful of the fact that I do wanna get to meet you at thirty but as of now, a month away from turning 23, I can’t make you the promise that you’ll be alive. Our demons just don’t guarantee that far, even when they are less stirred and more quiet. You’ll know them as well I do for they’ll not have left you then. Be rest assured, you’ll carry those fucks till our last day. Or better yet, you could surprise me and you’ll have gotten a hold of the rails on those demons and you’ll have found a way to coexist with them but as for now, they are still very much there.

As I said at the beginning, this isn’t a letter to wish you well. If it were, it would mean am more hopeful for a future than I let on. Can’t tell you much about the smoking though. That I’ll just have to leave it to the fate of time and see if I’ll have stopped trying to kill myself slowly with every cigarette I take. The question on whether I do it for the soul purpose of dying, I don’t really know. My subconscious is aware of the damage I can’t seem to stop inflicting on myself hence my feelings of guilt. At thirty, I do apologize prior for the possibility that I’ll have given you lungs worse than those of a fifty year old smoker. As I said earlier, I’m not big on being kind to myself. Hope you’re not too hard on your past then, it wasn’t our fault for not choosing better. Today I made what I’m sure will eventually be a broken promise to myself that I’d quit smoking the minute I’m done watching Peaky Fucking Blinders, (p.s Have a rerun marathon on them, you’ll have surely forgotten how good of a series that was). That’s the sadness of it all, being aware of my mistakes but never taking initiative to right those wrongs. I never seem to know better even when I should.

With my mind having lost its train of thought, I still take it to consideration that you still probably don’t like to read long posts so I’ll summarize this here… If you do get to live to see thirty, my wish for you is that you’ll have at least accomplished to finish school till your Masters. That’s the only thing our mind is good at, being a good psychology student. Make those who need to be proud of you not regret giving up on you. Love them and pray for them. Prove to them that even despite the demons that haunt us like the dementors from Harry Potter, we still got a little bit more going on for us in our so ever fucked up mind. If you do get to do this, I promise to tell you just how proud of us I’ll be. This isn’t everything I wanted to say but it is everything I can say as of now. When I thought of doing this, know that I’ll be glad to meet you. I’ll be glad to have taken all the antidepressants in the world if it means meeting you at thirty. I’ll slit through every vein to survive getting go see you, even if it means we’ll die right after getting there. Don’t weep for me when you look at our battle scars, just let the boy then who’ll be rocking our world kiss them and never forget that we are strong in the best way we knew how. I know you’ll probably find our walls still as high as those of a castle but know that I kept them up so I could keep us in, we are not to taint anyone else apart from ourselves. That’s my only hope for you. This is where I stop. Hopefully, I’ll get the honour of meeting you the author and psychologist that you’ll soon strive to become.

Sincerely yours, Dawn.

A girl has been bored. When am I never though… But despite everything else your caught up on, (#always your reliable depressive ), I don’t want to dwell on that as of now. I’m in too much of hyped up state to ponder over as of my current bestfriend & long time homeboy, depression. I’m gonna assume your curious on what has me feeling less forlorn than my usual state of being and from that assumption, I’m gonna share what has me feeling different. You’re girl’s been horny as hell (cue the audience’s laughter) …like majorly to the degree I’m fliker’ing my twickie…😂😂 That’s a statement I came up with two nights ago while keeping my sister company as she got drunk on a new alcohol she’d been meaning to try. We were sharing on our impending states of horniness and I told her how it’s in my next budget to get a rabbit vibrator but I’ve got no idea where the money’s gonna come from, ( PS. I’m taking willing donations to get a girl a vibrator, any amount will be appreciated 🤗). So yeah, in the midst of that conversation, I came up with the statement flicker your twickie. What can I say, I’ve been on a journey of forced celibacy for quite a couple months now and it was bound to take a toll on me eventually. Truthfully speaking, I pride myself over how long I can go before giving into my body’s urge to mate if I may call it so and I think this has to be that limit because I can’t help myself from needing some sort of release, (cue the major embarrassment ) but yeah, since I don’t have a man, the next best thing is a little playmate who’ll be utterly at my beck & call and who’ll I’ll not need to impress as much to get a little bit of pleasure from.

Whilst in the subject of partnership, I recently thought about the subject of having a Dominant again as a partner for myself. After such a while of me have stashed away the submissive in me from the front of my mind, she snuck back to remind me that she’s still there and that maybe she feels ready to make a gradual come back. After my last relationship as a submissive, I purposely took a step back from being in any sort of relationship, in regards to being in the normal kind of relationship or the Dom/sub relationship due to the matters of my ever loyal companion, my mental instability. Despite it all though, I have immensely missed the clarity and beauty that I feel as a submissive. The immense pleasure & thrill of it is a high that’s unmatched for me. It’s impossible to forget what it’s like to have such care given to you by a Dominant worthy your submission. I’d be lying if I said the sexual connection isn’t among the bigger perks of why I miss being in a Dom/sub relationship. Therefore recently when I thought about it again, I pondered over whether I feel ample enough to take up the role of a submissive partner to a deserving Dominant. I went through a couple of internalized questions and just really delved deep on whether I feel like I can put myself back into that head space. Let’s just say, I feel I may be ready for it but I’d have to make a few adjustments in concern to my mental health and whether the Dominant will be up for the task of handling me with all my luggage.

Entirely away from that, I’ve been meaning to seriously gush over a book I read recently that I can’t seem to get over just how incredibly wonderful & hilarious it was. Allie Brosh’s book Hyperbole and a Half is a book I didn’t realize just how much I needed to read. It brought me such joy & laughter. I read it in bed at two in the morning and I was laughing so hard, I started wheezing from it. Despite how short it was, it was an incredible read and I’d recommend it to anyone. I can’t forget to mention the imagery used in the book that accentuated it’s hilarious nature all the more. The writer’s sense of humor in the book had me wishing she could be my best friend. The book is mental health related and I loved how I was able to relate with her in some of her experiences with depression. The way she brought out her encounters with depression felt a lot like home for me due to the sense of familiarity & relatability. Hyperbole and a half will probably be among the best books I’ve had the pleasure of reading this year and I’d love to read more of Allie Brosh’s work.

In my spare time, apart from when I’m self loving & reading books, I recently started listening to podcasts as well. Through a girl I follow on social, I came across her podcast which I thought was super cool & insightful especially since the episode I listened to first had a touch of mental health to it. From listening to that episode, it made me wish that I had a friend who related on issues mental health & depression. I’d genuinely love to have someone by my side who understands what it’s like to struggle with an invisible battle. Hell, I’d love to have a best friend who relates on being a fellow crazy and we can laugh at how badly we are done existing, in this life at least… So yeah, I loved listening to that podcasts, it’s called The First Draft on Sportify and Apple Music if anyone would like to check it out. So yeah, I’m glad I got to rope you in on the better parts of my time bored and just in case anyone wants to be my friend, my one requirement is that you’re a touch of crazy and maybe a tad bit depressed too, for the days we both need to hurdle together in our depression 😅.

Through my mental health journey, I’ve grown to learn that it looses it’s aspect of private and individual just cause of what & who it ropes in along the way. In my case, my ongoing journey has roped in a few people, some were strangers who turned into family and others were family right from the start. It weighs heavy on me as a person who struggles quite often with the mental battles I go through, and this is not because of what it’s done to me, but because of what it’s done to those around me who’ve stuck by me despite my ailing mind. I have seen it tear down my sister and it was for me more excruciatingly painful than any insition I’ve ever put on my body. I remember last year when I had my depressive episode for about six months. It was right about the time when my country was on a lockdown due to the pandemic. I was stuck in our apartment with my sister and we had no means to go home due to a cessation that had been implemented on my country which prohibited me to travel. I self harmed more during that period than I ever had before and it became an instinct & it was such an impulsive nature for me to do, I grew numb about it. I ratted myself out to my sister cause I knew if I didn’t, I’d have probably not so intentionally hurt myself beyond what my little first aid after care routine could handle. Even then, despite being so out of touch with anything else besides the throes of my depression, I could see just how much my battle was weighing in on my sister. She carries her emotions on her sleeve so it wasn’t so invisible to me just how exhausting it was for her to see me go through that gutter. It’s not until recently in one of the countless conversations we have about my mental health did she admit to hating her work over that period when we were quarantined together and that she wanted to cry her eyes out everyday she had to do her job. She wasn’t sure if anytime I wasn’t in her periphery, I wasn’t cutting myself and now me being aware of what it must have been like for her to go through that, genuinely breaks my heart.

My guilt in depression is tethered to what my battles have done to others besides myself. I can honestly say, I haven’t found love enough for me to feel guilty over what being mentally ill does to me. It’s what it does to those I care about that shatters me the most. To say I have tried to hide the ugly effects of my battles from my loved ones would be putting it lightly. Sometimes I just rather die with it and let it rip me from the inside out all on my own than let it seep out to those who matter more to me than anything. With my dad for instance, my old man doesn’t know just how much effort it takes his last born daughter to live through each day as a depressive. On some days, I want to shout it to him with such aggression about how I can’t seem to shake off this sadness that I’ve carried around for all my life. On other days, I can’t help but think he’s better off in the dark, from it all. Untainted from my demons.

It’s been both a blessing and a curse having my father out in the clear from my battles. It’s been a blessing because then he doesn’t have to look at me different. For now he knows the bare minimum concerning my depression. He would still be in the dark if I had never needed his help on buying antidepressants last year after starting therapy. It was a hard enough secret to keep cause then it was just me and my sister having to find means on how we would get money to take me to therapy and for me to see a psychiatrist as well. It got so hard every two weeks trying to figure out how to come up with the sum of money I needed for every therapy session because I couldn’t tell my dad that I needed money for something he was completely out of the loop on. When I finaly had to ask for his help, I came home with a prescription letter from a psychiatrist with a list of antidepressants I needed to start taking. This was right after my county opened it’s borders and the cessation that had been put in place due to covid was lifted hence why I got the chance to travel home which put a halt on me going to therapy because it was in different counties.

To say I was nervous bringing up that subject with my father was an understatement. I wasn’t sure he’d grasp what I was saying or if whether he’d even understand the gravity. This isn’t to imply my dad is slow or anything like that. On the contrary, my dad is pretty intelligent. What I was worried about was whether it would make sense to him the way it was meant to, from my understanding. It’s through him and our conversations together that the aspect of being an African and having a technically African raised father that I saw how much ones background and tradition affect different aspects and subjects which in my case was & is mental health. He actually took it quite casually which was what I thought I wanted but turns out it wasn’t what I needed. I didn’t see concern on his face when I tried telling him that I struggle with depression. Instead I got a speech on prayer & exercise and how much it would help keep me less idle. I told him that it had nothing to do with that and that it was a chemical imbalance in my brain that made me depressed and it still didn’t faze him. I was quite frustrated to say the least but I understood him despite it that he couldn’t just magically see it as I did. I gave him the prescription and told him that I needed him to buy me that medication and he was fine with it.

Whoever believes that they can go through mental health on their own have it quite wrong. I never knew just how much I’d need my father’s understanding until I finally brought him into the know about my struggles. A few days before my last birthday, my dad finally bought me the antidepressants I had been prescribed and I decided to start on them the day after my birthday. I’d already been on a different set of antidepressants two weeks before and they had really exhausted me out so I didn’t want to be loopy on my birthday since I was gonna have a little shindig going on that day. Cue to when I finally started my new meds did I see true & genuine concern which was more than his impassive nature had ever expressed. A few days in after I had started on my new meds, I got some really scary side effects after taking them and I thought I’d get them under control by buying some antibiotics. I had major and I mean major heartburn and aside from that, my heart rate was over the roof. I had heat flashes and I could hear my own heart beating so loud and quite fast, I was certain I was having a heart attack. My dad’s girlfriend is a pharmacist and I asked her if she could prescribe something for the heart burn and she asked me about the meds I was taking and I told her what I was newly on. Later that night when my dad came home, he was beyond agitated. Apparently, after my conversation with his girlfriend earlier, it was apparent to her that one of the antidepressants I had been prescribed to was very severe and was mainly for schizophrenics. In basic language as was explained to my dad, he was told they were for ‘crazy people’. That was genuinely the first time I saw my dad loose his calm and look so terrified. I believe it dawned on him that he’d just bought his daughter over the counter meds that were going to completely alter my mind and irreversibly damage it for life. For the record, I never once thought of it as my dad’s fault because it wasn’t, neither of us would have known. He felt responsibile for that mistake since he hadn’t done research or any enquiry about the meds he was buying me before he handed them to me. I on the other hand was more upset that a supposed legal & professional psychiatrist had prescribed to me medicine he knew wasn’t meant for me and which would probably have adverse effects on me but went ahead and prescribed it regardless of knowing all that. I was livid and after that, I quit taking the meds all together because despite how badly they were reacting to my body, they weren’t meant for it from the very start.

After that experience, I have not had therapy or been on any other antidepressants since. I soon after asked my dad if he could look for a different hopefully better psychiatrist to whom I would see and get a better diagnosis of my mental health as well as better effective treatment. This is where it has proven to be very difficult to get my dad on board because he quickly fell back into his slow paced process of doing things. It’s been a few months since that encounter with the antidepressants and after that, my life sorta fell back into routine. School opened and everything else took a seat at the back of my mind. I didn’t get better per say but the depression went back to being my day to day cup of tea, the one I was accustomed to. Now, due to different triggers, I am in the middle of another depression episode and I thought it would be perfect timing to see a new psychologist & psychiatrist but mainly the latter. I made my dad aware of my need now for a psychiatrist and told him I have been struggling again but he doesn’t seem to see the urgency of it. Even just thinking about it right now, is nerve wrecking. I’m triggered by his lack of motivation and urgency in getting me help especially now when I’m not at my best mentally. I admit he’s not fully in the loop of just how bad my mental instability goes, he is clueless of my self harm which has started again after I’d been clean for 98 days. I have racked my mind on how to bridge that information to him without alarming him but I just don’t know where to start. On some days, I want to just show him my arms and let them speak for me but I get scared of what he’ll think or do. It’s taken me a lot to admit that I am mildly suicidal as of currently and I am going through the days trying to find the will to see through the end of each day. He isn’t aware that I don’t know how much waiting I can do anymore before I can completely disintegrate. I am trying to be patient but it’s hard when my mind isn’t on board. So yeah, that’s where I currently am. Mental health is so contradictory in how personal & individualistic it is but also how communal it trickles down to. I hope that the wait isn’t going to be longer than my mind can hold off from completely falling apart.

“I’d been depressed for so long, hiding it wasn’t an option anymore, not by choice at least. My body took the choice out of my hands.”

Last night as I lay in bed thinking as usual, my mind drifted off and I began to wonder what the world around me sees whenever they look at me. In all natures, be it physically, emotionally, spiritually and even more so mentally. Only a substantial amount of people can give just a little bit of insight on what they think they know about my mental health and the struggles that enslave me on a daily. They see what they perceive as just the basic stressful day to day experiences one has to go through being at the point at which I’m at right now in life. It’s absolutely okay in their eyes that I’m stressed out about not knowing what I want to do in my life or whether I have a plan for the next phase now that I’m done with college. I can say with certainty that nobody sees what I feel or have to live through on a daily… not even a fraction of it. A friend of mine earlier last night mentioned to me that she has noticed that I’m extremely general on everything I relay to her and my response to that was that the world isn’t interested in the specifics of one’s life. People rather just know enough than know too much. It’s enough for them trying to be allies but too much to be a friend. It’s extending support but without having to be presently there, in the middle of it all. I would honestly rather not have any ally at all if that’s the case, therefore having to maintain my specifics to myself.

If there’s a chance that the world around me thinks I’m normal, then truth be told, I’m offended. In the stereotypical sense of the word, normal is boring and I would be highly offended if anyone considered me boring. I may not be your ray of sunshine, but neither am I living through the normal cycle of being this person who believes that everything sorta just falls into place… not to piss on anyone’s parade who might live by the notion that everything does sorta just fall into place. Alright, maybe I am, even if just a little. Entirely, what I’m saying is that, I don’t think I have been afforded the luxury to believe that my life is following a mystical path where I’m meant to entirely live through mental suffering just for it to get better in the far future and that I’ll look back at it and think that it was all worth it. Simply, I’m not cut out for normal…and I’ve learned to accept that and maybe even embraced it.

I’ve mentioned it before to my sister that the worst possible thing that could happen to me in life would be to be termed as cliché. Just the thought of it, makes me want to buff in my mouth and it wouldn’t be pretty. Cliché in my eyes would be anyone thinking that I self harm for attention. Just so you know, anyone who does self harm is seeking attention, just not for the reasons that the world thinks they are. It entirely could be a subconscious reaction to emotional pain but, from what I have felt in that moment, despite trying to hide it, there’s a part of you deep inside that seeks out hope that someday someone will see that invisible but obvious cry for help. That they won’t look at you like a loon but will take an initiative to get you help, the help that you might not have had the courage to ask for.

How can I afford to feel self conscious over my body but can freely walk around with no sleeves covering my wrist and with my scars bared out to the world.”

I thought about that yesterday and if that screams normal to you, maybe you need to check yourself. I don’t have an answer to that, just like I don’t have answers to a lot of other questions about things that I do but can’t seem to have an explanation over. How I can even afford to walk out of the house with my marred wrist but can’t wear a dress because it will show out too much of my curves or in better terms, my fatness… It’s intriguing, isn’t it? That I am more ashamed of what was God given more than I am ashamed of what I self inflicted on my own body. It leads me back to the question of what it is the world sees whenever they look at me. Do they see the internal turmoil I have to face just with having to decide if I look more fat in a dress or whether I can pass on the lie that I was in a car accident to explain the scars on my hand? Are they remotely aware that I want to die but not necessarily from my own hands. “That I’m not suicidal but sometimes the lines get all blurry.” I know they don’t see all that, and it’s why my friends can afford to read my blogs and tell me that they’ll kill me first if I ever attempted suicide. That it will be selfish of me to choose my life over hurting them if I died by my hands. Oh, how selfish I will be if I died anyway besides what is considered natural. Well news flash, suicide is as natural as it gets. Until they can see beyond their hurt over me taking matters into my own hands, they will never see what truly lies beyond my eyes. They will never see beyond the lies of the fabricated stories meant to explain the scars on my hands. It’s not until they are ready to hear more than just the general, will they be aware of just how truly miserable I feel just having to live through everyday without the knowledge of why I’m even breathing.

So if you think for a moment that I’m normal, then I think you’re the worst kind of ignorant. It’s like if you treated a cripple like you would treat an able walking man…you’d be of great insult. Don’t look at my scars and then express indifference. I had that happen to me once before and it’s taken me over five months to express just how of a dick move that was. To completely disregard of my pain, is to disregard me as well. Don’t deceive yourself into believing that you’re doing what’s best by ignoring the elephant in the room. If you’re not going to kiss those scars like you would kiss every other part of me, don’t bother touching me at all.

I wish that sometimes, I didn’t have to act like am normal as well. It’s a deception from me too. Why can’t I just scream my lungs out in the middle of the streets just because I feel like it will be the next best relief? Why do I have to hold the pain till I’m behind closed doors to make deep enough insitions on my skin just to bleed the pain away? Why can’t I just break completely apart and not question myself over it or care about what it’s consequences will mean for me? I wish I didn’t have to fight so hard to keep the crazy tucked in when all I yearn for sometimes is to disentangle myself to little bits and pieces. All I ever feel like is a sitting duck or so in this case, a sitting crazy. I can’t tick off cause I should care enough about the consequences of what it will mean to the world but what about me, what about what I’m having to hold inside to prevent it from breaking out. A jar can only hold so much of anything without spilling out. I can’t even be crazy enough to finally get the attention I need that will get me help. All I wanna do is be crazy enough to get help and maybe if I’m lucky, stand the chance to gain a little bit of normal, even if it means gaining a bit of boring.