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Lately, I've been in touch with parts of me I have ignored for years. Some of these hidden in corners, memories that I wish I could forget. Past lives I wish I hadn't lived and self-destructive cycles that seem to ignite me the same way every time.
I have so often become worried about losing my softness and becoming full of rage. Depression embodied in anger and panic that caused my body to ache, and me to lash out at everyone and everything I knew. This plethora of emotions combined with constant worries tend to cast a shadow on the more "important" aspects of my life. My social life, my work, my art. But these same worries are much of what cause bursts of inspiration — I mean, how can someone not try to empty themselves of such powerful feelings?
These feelings were the physical manifestation of regrets (in relationships both romantic and not), the realization that every moment is fleeting, and the fight within myself to accept all that is. Because of this, I would cry. On the floor, at home, and at work. Wondering why and when and if there was even a choice to make in terms of living. I desperately needed to know if there was an "after". An after to sadness, and weakness. I spent weeks without showering, brushing my hair, or looking into a mirror. I felt homesick, at home, longing for whatever peace of mind that fled my head.
Months of this had passed, and the screaming in my head became silence. I wrote and I wrote and I drew and spoke to myself and decided that the tiredness, was tiring. If I wanted to live my life, meaningless or not, I had to own it. One message at a time I made plans with friends. I dropped all my expectations, for myself, and for the people I allowed close to me. I kept writing and drawing, I came to feel so unashamed of anything I felt. It became liberating to say yes and no freely, to feel no disappointment or shame in my game. To discover what I really liked, outside of who I made myself for other people. I had poured myself out of the bottle I crammed myself into.
When you are so used to feeling empty and full of everything at once, deciding to put myself ahead of others and crushing all idealistic fantasies I had (for people all round me who didn't bother considering them) is such a loud act of rebellion against myself. Vocalizing how I feel and what I want has never come naturally, (I've spent most of my life silent and shy) but I've found that living loudly, even if a little too loudly is much better than being silenced and beaten at games that don't exist. Reading books, writing, drawing — these things slowly but surely became more comfortable as I learned myself all over again. Learning that it is useless to fight things that I cannot change is an ongoing battle, one in which healing has been ugly and impatient, distracted and confused — not always shining bright, but constantly shining through.
There will always be hard days. I still have panic attacks, I still drown in my sadness. Now my sadness is not an ocean, but more so a lake. I can now consciously choose to shift the ground that I stand on without wanting to be buried in it. To wake up, not afraid of the sun. Taking it in a little at a time.
Lora Mathis once said "reassertion of yourself is an act of resistance and healing", and I think I am finally learning what that means.