Picking up pieces.

Hi, it’s me. It’s been a while since I wrote anything. To be honest, it’s been difficult to write.

For the past 8 to 10 months, I have been stuck in a mental and emotional chasm. I lost myself. Lost sight of things I wanted to do, thoughts i once cherished, passions I used to have. I became a shell, physically breathing and living but feeling utterly dead and empty inside. I silenced myself. Removed myself from the worlds I used to know, the friends I used to contact, the spaces I used to occupy. Hid myself in the deepest darkest corners of my mind, sheltering myself from the overwhelming world outside. Till I was lost in the comfort of the tiny space I had carved myself.

And so comfortable it was. Too comfortable till I started getting scared, of losing myself in that comfort forever. Never getting out, never living again. Never experiencing what it’s like to live, to feel something, anything, once again. But climbing out of that comfort is harder, so much more difficult, than falling in. The old world I used to know now seems utterly terrifying. The friends I used to have felt like strangers, and just the thought of reconnecting – sending that first reply or message – gave me anxiety. If they only knew, the numerous times I thought of messaging them, just to write and re-write a simple hi, and eventually losing any courage to even press send. Ultimately choosing to hide in the comfort that I had burrowed for myself. Socialising never felt so burdensome and hard.

But I’m trying. I swear I am. Picking up my courage, piece by piece and step by step, to crawl out and find my space, my world, my life. Discovering and re-discovering parts of myself. Learning and relearning what I like and dislike, whom I want to keep close and reconnect with and whom I would like to say goodbye, to socialise and re-socialise. Sometimes for days on end I fall back, losing all sense of time. And oh how easy it is to want to forget about living again. But still I try, one small step at a time, to pull myself back every time I fall. To not fall deeper than I already have the previous time.

It’s difficult. It’s hella draining, overwhelming, suffocating even, sometimes. Many times I wonder why I bother forcing myself to try. But I still am. Striving. Progressing, bit by bit, every day that passes by. Coming back to write is just one way I am trying. Writing has always been my means of expressing myself, my thoughts, my feelings. Clearing my head of all the junk that runs amok in my brain and clouding me of all sense of self. Even if I only write once in a long while. I just need to remember once again that I write for myself, not for anyone else. Just myself.

Sheer egoism, huh. Guess that’s my reason and motivation for writing then. A means for me, to survive.


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