A while ago, in a galaxy far far away, someone told me that I take things rather too seriously. Things that shouldn’t be bothering me at all, devour me and ruin my whole day, week, month, year, everything…
At that moment I didn’t think too much of it as I never do. That is something I was always aware of my own but never cared about it enough to act on it.
It was normal for me. I always knew that I cared more about other people than I care about myself, I always put their well being in from of my own. I don’t think it has anything to do with how I was raised, it’s a habit or a trait I picked up through life.
Over time, as it does, it started to feel like a burden. It started to reflect on my actions, my thoughts, my mental state most of all.
Soon, I started getting sick of it. But, that was a fundamental part of me for so long, it can’t change overnight, no matter how hard I want it to.
It got to a point where I had anxiety attacks over what people said to me or about me. I got bothered with what they thought and why they say what they say, whether it was at work or during classes.
There was a time when I was lifeless. I came crying to work after a whole day of classes and with minimal sleep. I wanted to be gone, to not exist. It was a dark time in my life, a time I wanted to pour gasoline over myself and be done with it all.
Many people argued that it was a life I choose myself, that I didn’t need to take up university at that time while I was working. I thought it would be manageable to work less and still make it. That was the reason for my downfall.
It was too much for me. I stopped doing many things I enjoyed because I could never find the time for it. It led to me being way too stressed, and even though I never had a diagnosis, I believed to be depressed.
I was crying myself to sleep because I was powerless to change anything at that time. I would get worked up over little things, snarky comments, comments on my efforts during my shifts, etc.
Along with many personal problems, I can say I was not in a happy place.
When I feel something, I can be bold and proclaim that I perceive it twice as hard compared to someone else. When I was angry at the many injustices that hit me at that time, it brought tears to my eyes more often than not.
It wasn’t because I was sad, miserable, alone, but because I hate injustices, I hated that I was worthless to some people despite working twice as hard. That hatred fueled my tears, and at that time, it was a fuel source of unlimited power.
At one point I wanted to quit. People were driving me insane, I was working crazy hours. I haven’t slept or ate right in months, and I still haven’t passed most of my classes. I wouldn’t see my friends in weeks. Reading a good book, writing a story or sketching a picture was out of the question.
I would break down when I was watching an episode of any one of my shows or when I was listening to music. I didn’t even care if there was anyone around. I would be walking around, listening to BANKS, trying hard to suppress the tears. Late at nights I didn’t succeed, but there was no one around to make me feel ashamed anyway ( I mostly do that still, but with a different mindset, wanted to point it out).
Then after an exceptionally bad day, there came I moment where I didn’t care. Which is ironic, because not caring is still an emotion but on the opposite side of the spectrum. One person that I never thought would be anything like me gave me a virtual slap, right when I needed it the most.
We have never before found mutual ground, we never talked about anything relevant. We didn’t know each other. She knew what I was going through because she experienced the same thing. She knew what it was like to care too much about the world that doesn’t give a damn about you.
She knew how to kill that feeling inside that makes you uneasy all the time.
I listened… for the first time in a long while I stood and watched a total stranger knock some sense into me, and I am not an easy person to knock anything into.
At that particular moment I hated her, I hated her with my entire being. I hated her for being loud, for being so arrogant, being a know-it-all, I hated her for being… right.
Most of all, I hated myself. I have been cheating myself so long, thinking I was actually OK when I fact I was dying inside. Every time the carousel made a full turn and every time the full circle was smaller and smaller and smaller…
It changed me, I am not going to lie and say that it didn’t. I always rather knew this, but I needed to hear it from someone else, someone who is like me. It needed to be someone who understands at least a tiny fraction of what it means to be an emotional trainwreck.
It is not as important what she said, I am not going to bore you with the details.
I thought afterward that we would never be able to speak again, that it would be so damn awkward. For the first few days, it was, but we got past it.
I guess what I was trying to say is that you never unlearn to be emotional. You are born and stuck with that. From time to time you need someone to remind you that it will not always we shitting rainbows and skittles, that people are cruel and uncaring, that there will be times where you would like to “cut a hoe”.
That feeling should not live in you long, otherwise, there will be no room for the good things, the amazing things, the things that matter or will matter at some point.
The most important thing is to accept that you are walking wreckage. Embrace it. Never let it go. Someday, not so long from now, us, the functionally scarred, will rule the world. It will not be a flaw anymore to care for others more than they care for you. They will build shrines in our honor and honor or names. (I HOPE YOU PICKED UP ON THE SARCASM AND HYPERBOLY)
There is no magical fix for the emotionally wounded, rather small steps and a lot of patience and working on yourself. And you need to learn it, every day, same as me.
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