I am the king of procrastination.
I'd like to escape with the excuse that I have been somewhat updating the other blog while I've been absent from this one, though I'll have to admit it's completely irrelevant. I just ran out of things to say, ran out of things to think, ran out of things to have an opinion on.
All I was left with was a sense of uncertainty about who I was becoming, and a surreal sense of gratefulness for the freedom of choice. For being able to choose, for having so many options.
And yet I was unable to choose yet.
It's been a year since I left school, uncertain of what I would become. I could have been anything, but I didn't find in me the willpower to be anything. I rather liked lying in my bed reading, and pretending the world didn't exist. I think I can spend eternity doing that. That, and the occasional walk outside to lie in the summer sun, trying to avoid lying on grass directly. And the breeze, the breeze that felt like an empowering push in the summer, the breeze that hits your face when you ride your bike down the slope. Unlike the cold, bitter air that numbs your legs when you ride in winter, and leaves you stumbling once you get off your bike.
I liked eating inside the house, and having things delivered without a second thought. And somehow, somewhere in between that lazy weekend, and now, those lazy weekends turned to lazy weeks, and lazy months.
And I didn't want to go anywhere, because then I'd have to think. Then I'd have to formulate my own thoughts when I was perfectly content with stealing quotes from other places and gorging myself with readings instead of real conversations. Then I'd have to think about where I want to go, and what I want to do when I was perfectly content with not knowing, and blaming my laziness on my being lost, not the other way around. Then I'd have to think about the future, and my life and where I was going and how I was going to eat, when I didn't think I'd have a future to begin with.
In the midst of convincing myself that I was content, I started contemplating suicide.
I started to be stuck in the solitude I created for myself. I avoided the sun, and the rain, and the wind. I started closing my blinds more, and never opening them. I would lie in bed until sundown again, and be out just to convince everyone I was fine. I thought I was fine.
Everything felt surreal. I got disconnected from reality, choosing to pretend that it will never happen. Choosing to pretend that I don't need to live in reality. And if I couldn't get away with it, I suppose I can always jump off a ledge somewhere.
I started wondering if my shower head would hold against my weight. Or if I could somehow find the courage to jump off somewhere. I started hoping the planes I was on would crash.
It doesn't get better.
Sometime that summer, I started believing that depression was a real condition. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I always believed that sheer willpower would save us, but now I didn't know where willpower came from.
Maybe I was coddled too much. Maybe I was burnt out. Burnt out from what, I'll never know.
Maybe I was becoming someone I didn't want to admit I was becoming, and so I started to pretend it wasn't happening. If I close my eyes, it'll be gone. Just like the monsters under your bed and in your closet, I tried to pull the blanket over my head and wish it away.
It didn't go away.
I told lies through the teeth. And smiled, and pretended it was fine. I said I was fine. I said I liked it here because I didn't see any other way. Because you said I can make it if I wanted to, even if I didn't like it. I didn't want to be here, I didn't want to be anywhere.
.
So I said I was fine.
I watched myself become like the people I mocked and hated and insulted and wished away. And I said I was fine, and you believed I was fine because you knew I mocked and hated and insulted these people, so you thought I was fine.
I pulled the blanket over my head and turned the lights off. I stopped going anywhere. I forgot meals. I ignored texts and calls. I stopped reading.
I don't know how time passed, but it did. And somehow, I screwed up enough to have to leave.
And maybe it's a blessing, or not. I didn't understand at that point, because nothing seemed real yet. Nothing seemed like it would matter, because there was no future that would make it matter. I no longer had anything to say, to read, to do. I didn't want anything, I didn't care.
Everything that would've set my thoughts and heart aflame had died out, and I stopped believing in anything. I started becoming a recluse, a sensitive one. I burst into tears when I watch sad movies, because maybe I felt like I could relate. I felt like I needed to reach out to God, to someone, but I had pushed everyone away and told them I didn't need them. Because I believed I was stronger than this, and I made them believe the same.
Most of us are lucky enough to never experience a breakdown. Some of us are lucky they have. I don't know. Whatever makes you stronger, I guess.
I don't know how people live with uncertainty. It must be scary. I regained my feelings a little more every day since I came back. And somehow I don't remember much of my time in that lonely room. I remember bits and pieces, but maybe because nothing ever happened, I don't remember much. I probably wasted a lot of time doing nothing, and I stopped growing at one point.
I'm still uncertain, but somewhat certain that I will have willpower someday. Enough to overcome any uncertainties, enough to be certain in at least myself, if not everything else. I'm at least certain that I can do anything I want to do. But I don't know how, I don't know what I want to do, or if I'll ever want to do anything that much.
But at least I stopped staring at the shower head like it's a noose. And I stopped staying in my room.
I don't know how I could've stayed in my room then. Now I can't stand being alone. Maybe making up for lost time, maybe trying to regain feelings. I started to have opinions again, and believing in things. I started wanting to do something, though I still struggle in following through with my plans.
It's been a year since I left school. Since then, I've worked in three different places, with different people and different tasks. I've gone abroad for a short program, and travelled more around the country. I've learned a lot of things outside my room, and stopped being so antisocial again. I started going out again. I started to want to meet new people. I started conversations, and I started to read again. I finished my portfolio. I bought new books to read, and started trading books again with my friends.
I kept a notebook of the things I learned. I keep a planner. I wrote out life goals, and monthly goals. I followed through some of the goals. I entered a design competition, though I didn't take it seriously once I started sketching, and lost. I talked to people I consider mentors. I went to festivals. I fell and skinned my knee. I got a puppy, which then died. I got another dog, and he's since learned to go up the stairs. I learned how to park my car.
I went to exhibitions alone, and made friends with random people. I went biking in the park. I watched a movie in an outdoor park. I walked around town until my legs hurt. I tried to join a history club. I went to Paris twice. I bought the bag I've been eyeing since high school. I started wearing a watch. I gained a bit of weight. I tried to run in the morning and failed after a week.
I started praying every night. I started budgeting my allowance. I opened a bank account. I bought the markers I've wanted since middle school. I started painting again. I keep a blog of ideas. I started cooking with friends in town. I organized my bookmarks. I organized my clothes, which lasted for a week. I started having goals, I started having people I wanted to meet, and things I wanted to do.
I started living outside my own world. I started living my life.
And I have a lot of people to thank for that.
I want to say I have willpower, or at least a little more than I used to. I feel like I've been saved, though I don't know if I'll fall again. I don't want to, it's a slow murder creeping over your thoughts until whoever you are slowly dies off.
But I learned a lot. I learned who I really didn't want to become, and how easy it was to let myself go. I learned that depression is real. I learned that I wasn't as strong as I thought I was.
But I also learned that I can change. I have choices, and I am grateful for them. I have control over the things I want to do, though I struggle with myself. I have things I want to do, and choices about how I want to do them. I have control over the things I feel, and I shouldn't let it get the better of me. I may change again, and I may do different things in the future, and love different ways. Because I'm what I make of myself, and as long as I have a temporary destination, I have a direction. I'll never know where I'll end up, but I know I can steer towards a place.
In the end, I'm still left with was a sense of uncertainty about who I was becoming, and a surreal sense of gratefulness for the freedom of choice. But that's no longer all I have left.
