Listening to Vivaldi and hoping he would rid me of this headache. Dull throbbings, those little sweet aches that just get worse when you pay attention to them. My brain hurts. I think I’ve been reading too much. I’ve consumed five novels straight. Outside sleeping and working, all my hours are lost to books. Just… I think this time I’m forcing myself to get lost in fantasies.
Before the past week I have been a wreck, crying daily, the horrors of my childhood traumas playing over and over in my head. You’d think that at 30 I would have “got over it” but it’s worse than ever. I’ve done a lot of research and joined groups in Reddit, and found it’s quite common for such paintful experiences to resurface at this age. What a downer. For several days I was obsessed with this ex-therapist named Daniel Mackler. I watched his videos in Youtube and even read his website. For the first time, my mind, my suffering finally made sense. I wasn’t alone after all. It was a relief, really… finding out all these things. There’s just too many things for me to list down right now but generally, all my self hate, self blame, all these struggles… everything had its roots in my fucking childhood. Well I did have an idea about it, I couldn’t be depressed all these years and not guess, but a part of me really believed I was just a bad egg, an alien, and that I deserved to be what I am. It’s liberating to know I don’t have to direct all the blame to myself alone, and that I don’t have to force myself to forgive and move on. I understand now that what I have needed all along was to break away from my parents.
All the self-healing stuff has been a little too much for me. I had a shift where I cried for three hours, and still worked at the same time. That was a feat, albeit an odd one. One of the benefits of working from home: you can cry undisturbed in front of your computer and not have anyone around to judge you a lunatic. Yeah, fantastic multi tasking there. Another time I cooked pasta, then when I sat down and began eating, I was imagining writing a letter to my stepfather, and I started bawling my eyes out. Yes, while eating pasta. That was a first.
I don’t think I like this self healing stuff. Confronting my traumas is so fucking painful. I feel distant from that self now that I write this. I still look at that self with disdain, but now with a lot more understanding. And acceptance. I understand that all that pain was to be my first step to enlightenment, to finally grow as a human being. I’ve really known it all along; for all my intellectual prowess, I am incredibly emotionally (and socially) stunted. Now I have the ideas how to fix myself. But then… maybe I lack the courage, or the motivation. Is it really worth it? Maybe it’s too late. Why should I dive back deeper into depths I’ve been trying to swim away from my whole life? Other people have access to therapy, they have friends, or at least people who understand them and would help. I have nobody. I would be doing this all on my own, and I’m not going to lie, that shit frightens me. I mean… I’ve survived to this age because for the most part I’ve managed to block that ugly past out. If I open myself to everything, everything… maybe that would really trip me over the precipice.
What would be the point anyway? Self-healing… growing… looks to me it’s more to benefit others really. So that I could fit with them and be “happy.” I debate with myself about this. Only when enlightened would I be able to finally establish healthy, lasting relationships. But again… if I ask myself, like really search into my soul, that’s not what I want in my life. I don’t get my happiness from other people. There’s so much more in life… I love life… for the music that fill my heart with joy, for art to learn about, even create, for the endless literature I can lose myself into, for more travels to take and for culinary experiences to enjoy… I used to worry about being alone in the future, and maybe that’s why I craved and involved myself in relationship after relationship with people who did not leave me alone but made me feel lonely. My interests are just too different, I am just too weird. But the pressure, which I had confused with my own desire, was what made me comply to what society dictates: find a mate and you will be accepted. Maybe it’s just an illusion of mine. Or maybe it was just my own distorted view on finding happiness.
There is genuine bliss in solitariness. Only at this stage of my life have I fully accepted this.
Or maybe this is just another stage I’m breezing through. Who knows? Perhaps next week I’ll be saying no man is an island. I don’t really trust myself sometimes. I chew principles like gum and spit them out when they lose their taste.
Anyway. That’s why I have been reading again. (My headache still here.) Distracting myself, stalling on making a decision… oh well, I know me and my personal storms. Maybe when my depressive fits visit again, I’ll continue with “the steps.” For now, I shall continue to read (and overextend my brain). Can you blame me anyway? Fantasies are so much better than realities.
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