If I’m entirely vulnerable with myself at this point, then i’ll admit that the last two weeks have been hell. That tears that were once strangers to my eyes have become those cousins that come to live with you till you become sisters. That I haven’t slept well except for one day. That I sleep late and wake up early.
If I’m to be honest, then i’ll talk about feeling victimized by life. Beaten down. Choice less. Powerless. And how that has left me feeling worthless.
I’ll tell you how my thoughts of death have evolved. That some nights ago, I did my pros and cons of dying. And there was only 1 reason why I should keep on being alive. And a thousand why I shouldn’t be alive. And that one reason is enough to keep me here on weeks like these.
My mother. That woman’s heart is so broken that the death of her child would reawaken it again just to kill it properly for real now. And I can’t do that to her. She deserves to see her hardwork pay off. May not be now, but at some point in life.
I’ll admit that I escaped into my mind. Went and went into places far away and deep enough. Hiding from my shame.
And i’ll tell you about shame. Brought by things I think I should have achieved by now. How looking at my friends, I want to hide somewhere till my life works out somehow.
Shame that makes me avoid reaching out. Because I don’t want the generic responses that i’ll get. That it’ll be okay. That life will work out somehow. That it isn’t that bad anyway. I’m hurting.
If I’m to be blunt with you, then i’ll tell you about this wound in my chest. That tears up at everything that seems to be a victim of life’s choices. This wound that relates to any semblance of sadness or hurt and cries for them, for itself. This wound that sees me turn away when talking to someone, lest I have to explain to someone why my eyes are full of tears.
I miss someone I love. But I can’t reach out to her. Because I feel like when I’m asked how I am, i’ll lie. And I can’t lie to save my soul. So I miss her from an ocean away. And await to be okay to say hi.
Then i’ll tell you about a business venture that lights up soul. I kinda feel pity for it. It has found me at the wrong time. When I’m tired of trying too hard. Because most things haven’t worked out. I wish it would pick up sooner rather than later. But wishes aren’t horses.
I would tell you how when escaping into my mind hasn’t worked this time round, i’ve tried other things. Things that had you told me I would engage in last year, I would have been tickled by your fantasy. They excite me. But only for a few seconds.
Then I would explain to you how my heart stops when I see people with babies. Because the world isn’t kind to daughters and sons. And I wonder how humans survive with their hearts outside their bodies. Because even if I wanted to, I don’t think I can.
I build walls around me, when I’m like this. I prefer to let people see me when I have manageable problems. Not this kind, that words, unmeasured words, can easily break.
So I’m here reading Ciru Ngigi, her vulnerability. And wishing I had her therapist. But on second thoughts no. I still want my ideal therapist to be someone who gets my soul. My torture. My kind of thinking. And goes ahead of me.
I’m afraid. For myself. Because this kind of pain begets more pain that begets more scars and baggage that has to be dealt with at some point. And I’m tired of it all. I just wish it would end.
But I live on. I stay awake until I can’t anymore. Then I sleep till my dreams literally wake me up. Then I somehow make it through that day. Somehow. Knowing that as much as I don’t think this life is worth it, the least I can do, is be alive for my mother.