Do you have mornings where you don’t want to get out of bed? Not because you’re sleepy or the weather outside isn’t coming through for you, but because you do not know why you should rise. Your knees are suddenly weak and as you keep tossing in bed, you open your favourite blog in a bid to rid your head of all the images flashing past you.
The blog doesn’t work its usual magic. All of a sudden, the writer sounds too absurd and cliché. Their words are carelessly thrown here and there. Suddenly, their stories seem irrational and blurred; the plot doesn’t flow. And you wonder why you’ve been following their blog religiously. You even have it bookmarked on your browser. Jesus! You think this particular writer is overrated; that you could do better than them. You wonder why people believe so much in them.
But then again, you don’t delete the bookmark. Deep down, you know its guilt and adrenaline that is taking a toll on you.
You close the tab and curl up in bed as you listen to Charlie Puth’s “attention”. You wonder if you’re the being who just wants attention; nothing more nothing less. You retrace your last 16 hours and wonder how normal life would have been had you just skipped that single part of the puzzle, you beat yourself for not thinking; for finding a solution after the damage had already been done.
You wonder why that single text took too long to come through.
Then you realize all along, you’ve been struggling with your little insecurities; never wanting to let people down at the expense of your own happiness. Never wanting to accept that you’re vulnerable. That your emotions work so hard to push you to the edge, that you are an incomplete person. That you mostly fail at everything you do.
Your phone occasionally beeps;
“Shika simu my friend,” one text reads.
“You okay?” another one.
And you think of ignoring the messages before you quickly reply:
“I’m in the middle of something. Will call you later.”
And you know you will never call because well, you’re in the middle of wondering what’s the point of life. You’re wondering whether the ground actually opens up in some parts of the world and swallows people. And you start to imagine yourself buried alive by a building, thinking about the books you didn’t read; that maybe would have landed you on a different course. And you think about the ones you read that depressed you even more.
You think about the wrong choices you made, the bridges you burnt and the life you didn’t live. You think about the people who wish for a life like yours, and wonder what on earth is wrong with their heads. You think about yourself in your grave and you’re suddenly at peace.
You know you will never call because the only thing preventing you from smashing that phone against the wall, is the fact that you’ve convinced yourself you don’t have anger-management issues; that it will take eternity before you get another phone and the sad reality that there’s someone on the other end of the phone who gives you the reason to smile; and you already vowed that you’ll never let them down. And they believe you.
When your bladder cannot hold anymore, you drag yourself into the bathroom and ease it out. For the first time, you hate that your bathroom mirror was placed at the sink. As you brush your teeth, you look away because even a glance of your own face brings so much shame to you. Your bathroom is always your safe space, but this day, you want to run away from it. It harbours all the things that point a finger at you; the toilet seat, bathing robe, shaving accessories, water and THE GRAND mirror.
You finally crawl back to your bed, emotions heavy on your heart. Before you burst out into tears, you text that person who holds to ransom a portion of your heart:
You: Why do you even love me?
Them: I don’t have a reason. I just do.
You: I don’t think I am good for you. I’m not ready to expose my vulnerabilities to you. I am beyond broken. I cannot be mended. You deserve better.
Your fingers are literally shaking as you wait for them to reply. You’re counting your heart beats as they thump hard against your chest. Your head is unusually light, and there and then, you wish you had real problems like struggling with addiction, or pornography or theft.
Tangible things that people could relate to; that you could check yourself into a rehab centre and hopefully come out ‘more human’.
But here you are; struggling with something even yourself can’t explain. How well do you explain that at times you just feel extremely awful about yourself, you beat yourself, drown in your guilt, cry for lost chances? How do your even explain that you think something is ‘wrong’ with you.
Something which you don’t know.
Them: The storm will die down. Sooner or later. All the same, my feelings for you won’t change.
And somehow, you get a reason to hold on a little much longer.
Do you have such days?
Yeah. Me too.