Well, it's not every post that gets a half month delay before I even get around to forming sentences with bullet points, let alone polishing it.
There are several reasons for the delay. Chalk most of it up to procrastination and plain being tired. A healthy chunk of it being avoidance and just not wanting to think about sad things, and perhaps not just for escapism, but for healthier thinking tendencies. And whatever left of the reason being that I don't even feel confident about my own convictions and how I feel, and not knowing what the hell I'm doing and what's right.
So, needless to say, this is going to be an awful piece of writing. I really ought to make that a disclaimer on both my blogs to spare myself the trouble, heh.
About two days before reslavery, I made a short surprise visit to my cousins' gathering every Sunday. I was made to talk on the long car ride home, since they were trying to help me develop social and networking skills. Seeing that they were close family and all, I felt safe to share the most immediate worry that was staring me in the face at the time: reslavery. I talked about my disdain for "the system", our culture and attitude, how we're treated, how toxic the environment is, and how I'm so, so afraid I'd do something terribly stupid in this stage of my life because I'm not in the right state of mind.
I was immediately blown off and authoritatively told to "shut the fuck up", and this was right after the same person got on my case for instinctively dropping f bombs in front of his, what, 4 year old daughter, too. And it's not like I was just blindly lashing out, either. I was trying to keep everything civil and I wanted a discussion, but hey, he just didn't want to hear any of it. He told me that if I didn't want to defend this place, I should just get the fuck out of here.
I managed to avoid breaking down until I was dropped off and was all alone. And when I managed to stop crying and clean up at the nearby mall's toilets, I threw a tantrum at home, tossing all my slavery related crap around under the pretence of packing. I eventually broke down again mid packing before dropping dead from exhaustion.
So, yeah, I don't react well to things right now. I'm extremely volatile, easy to upset, quick to anger, and will let my emotions consume me and in that state of mind I'll formulate the unhealthiest way to "solve" problems.
But, I mean, what the hell else was I to do? Could anyone really blame me? I have tried everything in the one and a half ish years after I realised I most likely struggle with depression, some of which I never thought I would. I have sought psychiatry, I have sought counselling, I have made SOS phone calls, I let my family, friends, and even acquaintances on Facebook know I've depression. I've made some of my more polished and informative writing about my personal struggles and demons in my head public as notes on Facebook. I do Google searches on depression, anxiety, self esteem issues, codependency issues, loneliness, and so on almost every morning.
And what the hell do I get. For all that effort on my part, for all that damned pain I put myself through, for struggling every day to stay alive to hopefully see a glimpse of light, what the hell do I get.
I'll fucking tell you what I get. I get family members telling me to shut the fuck up. I get parents telling me to just forget the bullying that happened ten years ago. I get treated like a fucking joke by psychiatristS. My counsellor gets angry with me for not being able to change. I get close friends ignoring my texts because they're legit too busy with an adult life now. I get love interests blowing me off after all I did for her in spite of all the fucking demons in my head and my world constantly being in a blur.
I get it. I'm flawed. Extremely so. More than flawed, I'm broken. That's what articles always liken mental illnesses to, doesn't it? If a car is broken, you don't pour acid all over it, blow it up or drive it off a cliff, do you? It's just broken, and broken things can be repaired. You take it to a shop to get it repaired. Similarly, if you're depressed, no matter how warm, caring, flowery the articles always are, they'll always centre back to that point: get help. See a professional trained to handle this. They'll make you feel better! They'll help you fix your problems!
But, as I'm starting to find out, it isn't as easy, or simple, as going to a doctor for a physical illness, or even sending a car into a workshop. There seems to be some missing step, or steps, that I'm just plain not getting and not being highlighted enough when it comes to getting mental health aid. At least three times in my hazy memory I can recall being asked explicitly, "how do you want me to help you?", by these so called professionals, and not as an introductory line at the start of a session, either. It was really deep into the session where the psychiatrist just didn't seem to know what the hell I want. I feel like I'm asking for ramen at a zoo or something.
I don't fucking know how the hell you're supposed to help me, just goddamned help me! I get suicidal urges on a daily basis, I have all the fucking symptoms of depression for longer than I can remember, and you're telling me you don't know how to help me? This is the single most textbook, living, breathing specimen of a depressed individual, and isn't your whole fucking job to help these people? I don't fucking know what's wrong with me! You think a person hit by a car knows what's wrong with him? Or why a car knows why it can't move? So, what am I supposed to take away from this combined experience of both private and government practices? That there's nothing wrong with me? That I don't need help? That it's normal to want to die? To feel this tired all the time no matter how much sleep you get? To find life pointless and meaningless? To want to push everybody away? To get these fight or flight primal instincts kick in when you're rightfully reprimanded? To have your hands shake, heart race, mind blank when someone at work tasks you with something? To get so, so violent at the slightest provocation?
Fine. Fucking fine. Maybe this is normal. Maybe I'm just being a big fucking pussy. Maybe I'm victimising myself. Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. After all, what other logical conclusion can be drawn when mental healthcare professionals, family, and close friends alike treat you like a fucking joke, right? "How do you want me to help you?", "aiya everybody also has depression one la", "your bullying crap happened 10 years ago liao la remember so much for what" "your problems aren't even real". And if no other logical conclusion can be drawn, then it goes without saying that wanting to die, and by extension, suicide, is perfectly normal, right? That it's of no concern to anyone. It's not a big deal.
Why the hell do I even try so hard to stay alive for fucks and scum like these.
And thus, feeling like I'm all alone in this cruel and unfeeling world, I began my crusade of self isolation. I bring up my misadventure with my cousins not because it was the singular reason that led me to it, but father the final push into reclusion along with a host of other factors, and one that perhaps best helps illustrate my point of everybody around me being jackasses to justify my own actions. Now, don't get me wrong: I didn't go full Hikikomori on the world; I unfortunately am not in a position where that is an option. I still go to work, 6 day work week and all, through the crippling anxiety and the blunders it causes me at work. It's just that I deactivated my Facebook account so nothing is accessible by anyone anymore. I deleted my entire Instagram app, and I was so close to deleting WhatsApp entirely too if I didn't need it for my immediate family to get in touch with me. In lieu of deleting WhatsApp entirely, I blocked both --, and deleted their contacts from my phone. I'd do the same for my cousins, too, if they wouldn't just detour around to my sister to get a hold of me.
Short of suicide, this is the closest I can get to vanishing from the world like I so dearly want to. I'm just sick to the core, sick and tired, of human contact. I feel like I've been played for a damn fool, to have been made to pour my heart and soul out to people who had reassured me they cared for me, only to judge and chastise me for sharing my woes, and belittling my troubles.
So right now, my only human contact is at work and at home. The former because I need to earn a living, and the latter because there's no getting away from them. I don't make, or feel an emotional connection with anybody. I've given up on turning to any of them.
Pain. Pain. So much pain. Too much pain.
******************************************
So go ahead and pin this all on me as usual
At least until my next breakdown
I'm strong enough to say I don't care anymore
So why's it matter anyway
I'm sure I'll go whimpering back to your feet in due time
Nothing I can do matters to you
I don't even take myself seriously anymore
But whatever makes you happy, makes me happy, right?
That's what love is supposed to be, isn't it?
To love someone is to set them free
I can't blame you for not loving me
I know there's no escaping the fact you mean the world to me
I know I could never lie to myself for the rest of my life
I guess all that's left to do now
Is to let time do the thing it does
Kill off any last remnants of attachment to you
To match the hope we had of this ever working out
The silent signs were as tangible as I had feared them to be
I guess it wasn't just the voices in my head driving me insane
Maybe everything's as crazy as I think
The voice in my head tells me I'll never stop loving you
hatred and loneliness can be addictive
if you let it love you back
I don't need you
I've my own vices
you'd never accept
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