el despertar
This is my second written blog entry, and I still don't know how to start one. You'd think I would have an idea by now, no? Well, I unfortunately don't, but you know what they say: the third time's the...
It doesn't matter anyway, because this is my second blog post, and that's what I'd like to focus your attention on, not a third blog entry that hasn't even been conceptualized yet.
It's been a month since I last sat down to write, and things feel different, but for the better, of course. When I last sat down to write, I was accompanied by an intense, lingering anger that seemed to follow me like my shadow, always following my footsteps. The anger has subsided, though its intensity still lingers. I sometimes feel resentful towards it—towards myself, for creating a space where such negative feelings shaped my way of seeing life, my way of thinking, and, essentially, the way I saw myself.
The truth is, I am in a strange period of my life. I know I have been in similar ones before, no doubt, but this one is a million miles away from any period I have been in, ever. Often, I am consumed by various emotions, engulfing and choking me like the dementors from Harry Potter, suffocating me in all-consuming ways. These "dementors" have names, nostalgia, fear, and anxiety that stem from my fear of going nowhere in life after all the hard work and reconstruction of the self I have put in the last few years.
Despite these suffocating moments when I feel overwhelmed by the thought of having to say goodbye to the life I have built over the past couple of years, my life is, for the most part, positive. In the same way I'm caught up in these lingering feelings, in the root of myself, I find another overwhelming feeling: hope. Regardless of not knowing where my train is headed, there is a buzzing feeling underneath all the negatives —the almost naive reassurance that, in the end, things will turn out great for me, even if it's not how I pictured them.
That feeling comes from deep within myself and is what oftentimes gets me out of bed in the morning. As a product of this, this hunger lies within me, clawing at me, forcing me to get up and do better every day, no matter what. This hunger is, in part, the essence of who I am; it's very telling about the kind of person I am. I worry that the hunger is never-ending and that I will never be able to satiate it. I fear that I will wake up each day, striving to do better, until I die, not knowing when I was at my best, because I was too consumed by chasing the best version of it.
A long time ago, my therapist had asked when it would be enough. What would my stopping point be? When would I be satisfied with myself, with my life? Before I could answer, she continued, saying that I'd die by my own hand —killing myself over and over again in the name of striving for greatness, always chasing more. How can I pretend to keep on chasing for more when I make it so hard to impress myself anymore? How can I continue with my life if I can't learn from stagnancy because I can't let myself be in it?
I recently revisited this topic in therapy, seeking answers on how to approach it. I had mentioned that I found a way to mitigate the skipping of my accomplishments, of the moments where I got what I wanted, and began to normalize slowing down and enjoying my different journeys, not just their destinations. This mitigation strategy has opened my eyes, showing me how sweet it can be to look at the fruits of your labor and savor them. I incorporated small mouthfuls of my success into my diet, making sure to savor every bite, every tangy-sweet flavor combination that came with reflecting on how far I had come.
Because I had spent so much time being angry, I had started to see myself in a very negative light, often tearing at my seams just because I had nowhere to direct my frustrations. So, what better way than to take them out on myself? I was the one with the problem, after all. The thing about tearing yourself apart that no one tells you about is that when you put yourself back together, you will not come back the same.
I am not the same as I was before last summer, for better or for the worse. I believe that is why I have grown somewhat resentful towards myself; it was my own hand, my own doing, stemming from all the frustration I felt that brought this about. My therapist was right, I will die by my own hand, however many times I see fit, to adapt to the expectations of those around me.