November 2018

Hello Dear Blog. This is a filler post for November. I'm sorry I've had to resort to these, but I'm trying my best to better my life. and it's really taking its toll on me, both mentally and, as I'm learning to be proud of saying, physically as well. Not to mention, writing about my problems always seems like scooping up hot coal with my bare hands. I'm also slowly learning to be kinder to myself, and recognising bad habits and thinking patterns. A part of me doesn't want to do this to myself anymore. What this means for this blog and my hobby for writing, I'm not quite sure. It's not like I ever had a plan or a vision for the future; the present is always too overwhelming.

I... have always felt so tired. So overwhelmed. So at my limit, even if nothing out of the ordinary is happening in my life. Is this just what it means to grow up and be an adult? Or is it still my mental health issues taking their toll on me? Perhaps a physical health condition I don't yet know about? Who knows? The only certainty seems to be that everything is a blur.

Sometimes I think I'm so special. Sometimes I really do believe that each of us human beings are so unique and so special, each with their own untold stories, unseen struggles, and unique thought patterns each with compelling merits. I really do think it's a crying shame that writing as a hobby, especially journaling about ourselves, is such a niché hobby. Sometimes I find it just a tad silly that we're spending so much money chasing fantasy stories when equally compelling ones are all around us, or even within ourselves. I wonder what an interesting, more understanding, more compassionate, more intimate, more accepting world it'd be if we all could know and appreciate the stories of each other.

But right now, I feel as if... so what if I'm special, you know? If everyone is special, then no one's special, isn't it? So what if I'm struggling, so what if I'm suffering? So's everyone else. Who am I then, to ask for help? To want a listening ear? Especially when I've nothing to give in return to anyone. I feel more and more like a burden that should just shut up and "tough it out", the more annoyed reactions I get, the more sanctimonious preachings I receive, and the more evident it becomes that, ultimately, my life is in my hands. Mine and mine alone.

So what if my story joins the countless others that went untold, right? Is there value to this suffering? is there merit in this story, especially given my inability to tell it well? I'm starting to think, no.