will my thought seeds bloom or wither away?

I think. Too much, too often, too deep. 

I care. Too much, too often, too deep.

I love. Too much, too often, too deep.

I feel. Too much, too often, too deep.

There is too much of it. Too much and I feel like I am being consumed by all that I give away. 

What will be left of me if I keep on going this way?

While others patiently move forward and leave me behind

I sit 

and mourn

the place they used to take up in my life.

We, as a society, seem to move on so quickly from things. 

Away we go from everything that once made us smile, that once meant a lot to us.

I might be one to blame from my incapacity to just... let go so easily. To mourn a couple of weeks and then be over it.

I wish that I could just naturally detach myself from things that happened to me, from people that are slowly, but surely pulling away, forgetting about me... I do think that I impact lives, so why am I still so easy to replace, to put away as something that was just a faint memory? 

I envy the ones that function normally, that do not crash out at the littlest inconvenience, that can be so, so consistent with their work, their goals, their whole beings and purposes.

They do not know how much of a privilege that is. How much of a privilege it is to actually be capable of doing all of those things and not carry the dread of losing it.

I wish that I could hold on longer to the things that actually matter to me, to the goals and things I wish to pursue. I wish that I could avoid crumbling down as easily as I do. 

For I am a very big feeler, but what does that help me with in a world in which feeling deeply is the most naive, most self-sabotaging thing anyone can do? To feel in a world driven by robotic figures is just like being the black sheep in a family, just like being the odd one out, just like planting a seed of something that has no place, whatsoever, next to the other ones. 

How could a seed even grow in a place it isn't even supposed to be in? How could it do anything but be overshadowed, anything but wither away under societal pressures and expectations? 

My sensibility, my overthinking, my ways of caring just a bit too much about the things that are seen as quite secondary at best in this world of ours... how am I even supposed to make a living for myself in such circumstances?

there is a light at the end of the tunnel and there is hope at the end of despair.

 Here's the scenario: you're sitting on the cold floor, left hand on your chest, right heart holding a gun. Not any ordinary gun, but THE gun, the one that is meant to end this endless nonsense of life, this continuous struggle of existing in a world that seems to not quite be made for you to exist in, this going in circles and struggling to go forward. THE gun, THE object that can take all of these sorrows away. You hold onto it like it is the most precious thing in the world. Still, your heart. Your heart is beating faster and faster. It perhaps senses that there is an ending near. Is it scared? Is it excited? Is it glad that all the ache it had to carry around all of these years will be finally dropped? We cannot know for sure, but there is something quite peculiar about its way of somehow sensing it: the end. 

 One hand on your chest, one hand on the trigger. The taste of freedom feels sweet, yet the sourness of the way you get to it is present on the tip of your tongue. Sweet freedom, you think. Sweet freedom, but at what cost? Is this what you really wish for? Is this what you really want? Is this how it has to end, this life of yours?

 Thrilling is the thought of your sweet surrender, your sweet demise. Yet somehow, tears start to make their way in your eyes, then down your cheeks, only to end up on your lips. The saltiness of a heart aching for another way out. Deep down, you're salty. As salty as your tears. 'Does it really have to end this way?' is what you're truly wondering. 'Did I go all this way just to end up like this? All of these years... is this what they sum up to? It can't be... yet it is. What hope do I even have left? I have clung onto every little grain of SOMETHING, ANYTHING I could find to keep me here, to keep me going. I have tried my best, I swear I did. Yet nothing, NOTHING is all I am left with after all of this. NOTHING is all that I have become. Am I not just wasting space? Am I not just wasting resources that someone, ANYONE that still has any hope left wishes for desperately, while I have them and I just waste them for what? I am nothing. I have become nothing but a dot on a page that is already filled up with other dots, brighter dots, luckier dots, bigger and more hopeful dots. A dot on a page, a dot on a book, a dot on a globe that is already too full of dots. This shall be a good riddance. The world shall be free of all that I am (not anymore).'

You think and think, go through all the reasons why this is the right way to go. You're tired, so tired of it all. You know that it is pointless to keep on going. 

Then why, you wonder, there's still so much hesitation in pulling that trigger? Why is your hand playing with the trigger, yet shaking uncontrollably as your tears become a pool of pain and regret? Why is your heart beating, still beating, perhaps screaming at you to change your mind? 'Stop screaming, you sigh. Stop it. It it pointless, you hear me? POINTLESS. What is the point of going on? 

WHAT IS THE POINT OF GOING ON?

 STOP SCREAMING, YOU FOOL!

 STOP SCREAMING!

STOP BEATING! STOP IT!

STOP!' 

You desperately shout at your naive heart. You don't realize that you are the one screaming. You're the one still wishing for more beats, wishing for something to change, something to actually hold onto. You blame your heart for beating, yet it still beats because of you. You're angry at it for fighting, yet deep inside, you wish you could be by its side, fighting together for another day. Still, the only warrior left on the battlefield seems to be your heart, your good ol' beating heart. 

Yet it is a part of you, isn't it? One cannot be without the other. One cannot beat without another. 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words - 

And never stops - at all - 

You look up at the sky. It is a rather beautiful shade of blue today. You hear the birds sing, their voices as sweet as ever. You hold your gun tighter, hands shakier, tears saltier and your heart's beating even faster. 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - 

And sore must be the storm - 

That could abash the little Bird 

That kept so many warm -

Sweet songs of birds become the voices of the hope you used to cling onto. Friends and family, all gather at the top of your head. They're these beautiful birds and they sing you songs of

 things they wish to do and

 lives they wish to live and

 you weep like a little kid

 wishing you could hug them one last time

 and tell them that you're sorry (for you truly are). 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - 

And on the strangest Sea - 

Yet - never - in Extremity, 

It asked a crumb - of me.

Your family and friends fly down, on your lap. You stare at them, they stare at you.

And then, suddenly, they all hug you. Each little bird, with their different shapes and colors, give you a warm hug. And suddenly, the world doesn't feel as scary. The road ahead,  a bit clearer. The sun shines brighter. Your heart begins to slow down. The grip on your gun loosens up.

You're hugging these birds. In fact, you blink twice and there are no birds there. You're hugging yourself. You're here. You're still here. 

There is a light at the end of the tunnel and there is hope at the end of despair. 

And so, even in the darkest of times, hope somehow came 

to you me.  

does self-hatred ever go away? and the forgiveness of all you could've had and become but weren't able to (trauma and neurodivergence).

 

To look back and see everything that you've missed out on because of all you've been through and because of the ways in which this had wired you is unrelentlessly heart-crushing. The more you go back, the deeper you sink into it. All of the missed out opportunities, connections, all the ways in which you've fallen behind your peers and humanity altogether. All that you can do is to look back, stare at what you were like, stare at your wounds, your pain, your experiences, your ways in which you chose to deal with them, and mainly... stare back at a self that did not know why everything was happening in those ways. A self that yearned for compassion, that yearned for closure, for warmth and safety, for an understanding of why you are the way you are. ,,I'm not a violent dog, I don't know why I bite" becomes a thought that circles inside of your head, over and over, on a continuous loop. You wish to verbalize it, give it life. You wish to make the ones around you understand. But you cannot, for they do not care. Their care is only to point at you, to point at all that makes you different, all that creates the holes in your body (that are in fact invisible to anyone but you).

  How could I make them understand me? How could I make them see me as I am, not as I am triggered to be, not as I am shaped to be by all that surrounds me?

  Wonders and wonders, thoughts that continuously go through your head as you're once again cornered out, punished, neglected, laughed at and belittled, just because you function differently. 

  The rage, envy, and shame of one simple thing: childhood. The rage when you think of all you went through and how, indeed, it was not normal, it shouldn't have happened, and it pretty much destroyed your chances at easier, more normal beginnings of adulthood. The envy when you see everyone that had the chance of growing up in more stable environments or just themselves being more stable overall, so that they can now function as more or less decent adults. The shame of you being you, of being built the way you're built now. The shame of what you likely already carried since the day of your birth becoming more and more debilitating. The shame of you developing diverse and complex trauma responses that are just as debilitating as the ones you more likely than not always had in your breathtakingly heavy backpack. Everything, put together, tied up with a pretty bowtie, creating the being that you are today. The being that struggles so much even after lots of work to just exist. The being that is too tired, too emotional, too forgetful, the one that hasn't invested in actual skills as a child and now just floats as a lost puppy in a world in which everyone is seemingly finding their own homes. 

  And how could you not feel this deep self-hatred that was implemented inside of you for such a long time? How could it not rise, again and again, when you see how hard simple things are, even the ones such as existing? How could you heal it, make it go away, make it be okay? How could you?

  It feels so impossible to not go back to such methods. It feels impossible to not root these poisonous roots even deeper into your veins that pulsate the sad reality that you are, in fact, still here, still alive. And as sad as it is, it is also brave. A brave thing to do. To be alive, even after all of this. To keep on fighting, to keep on going, even when you still feel like it is pointless. To keep on going, even when each route in front of you seems to be slowly closing. To keep on searching, even if you haven't found anything to genuinely hang onto in a long time. And, the most important thing: to keep on believing that it will eventually get better, when the world around you wishes to prove you wrong.

  For yes, it does get better for others. Yes, there are many cases of people rising from their ashes and becoming such brilliant phoenix-like beings, that it keeps you in awe. It does happen, yes. But does it happen to you? How many affirmations can you swallow down your throat 'till you end up being sick and just throw them all up, with a final ''I cannot believe, for that is not me, for that never was me and it can never become me?'' How much 'till that deeply rooted self-hatred crawls out of your throat instead and it shouts ''Enough is enough!"? 

  I do wish to forgive myself. And I do work on that, more often than not. And still, as it is something that is deeply in my core, it ain't easy, at all. People think that it is. People do expect it that once you don't show it, it is gone (and oh, once you show it again, you should see the shock on their face; it is valid though, for I once believed that if it is gone, it won't come back again). People believe that and somehow, I do too. I believe that it is easy sometimes, but it is not. It goes away, maybe for a longer time now than before, but then it comes back, again and again, to buzz you 'till you're finally ready to face it head-first and not fight it, not put it aside, but ACCEPT IT, DON'T BLAME IT UPON YOURSELF and LET. IT. GO. 

  For that is. in my opinion, the hardest process and the hardest combo you have to make in order to actually let go of something. You can accept that it happened, but still blame yourself for it and not let it go. You can stop blaming yourself for it, but still be in complete denial that it happened the way it happened, and of course not let it go. And then, the worst of all, you just let it go, which is basically (in my earnest opinion) just putting it away. You cannot actually let go of something (once again, in my earnest opinion), 'till you actually do these things. 

  And I do guess that putting things down this way is more of a self-reminder than a call-out into the world. It is more of a grounding into the reality I go through right now. A reminder that no, the war, the journey, the work I have to put in is still not over. But I have to keep on going, I have to keep on fighting. I have to keep on putting in the work, for if not me, then who? For if not for me, then for who? For if I don't do this, who else will suffer the full-on consequences of it but me?

  It is hard. So, so hard. Giving up is always easier. But I am already so far ahead than where I used to be. I can look back and see the differences. And even if it hurts that I have become the way I have become because of all that happened and because of how I approached them and the way in which I was born, I am still doing some things that many wouldn't. And that is brave. 

  And if anyone ever gets to read this as well, it goes out for you as well. No matter where you are right now, it is never too late to start getting better. It is hard, it is painful, it can be full of agony and despair. But in the end, it can slowly, but surely, bring you somewhere you need to be at. 

  So, to me and to whoever reads this and relates: let's try our best to heal whatever lies inside of us. Heal wounds, that we may or may not have caused upon ourselves. Heal perceptions we created in order to make sense of whatever was happening to us. Understand ourselves, accept ourselves and things that happened to us, and let them go. We can do it. Even if it takes years, we can do it. Even if we fall back, as long as we continue moving forward, we can do it.

 WE. CAN. DO. IT. 

anxiety, trauma and the subtle, unsteady, long process of healing.

 

Once again, it crept up on me.

I was unaware of how much it still affects me.

Unaware of how it’ll make me freeze up and be unable to do simple tasks.

But I slowly became aware.

'It started with a faint whisper: you’ll make noise. You’ll annoy everyone around you'.

Then it kept on going. It slowly started to speak normally, with a normal tone.

I could hear it more and more clearly.

'Do not eat. The sound is annoying.'

'Do not drink. The sound is annoying.'

'Be careful of how much you breathe or gulp. If it is too much, it’ll get annoying.'

'Do not move around. That’s annoying.'

 

'Annoying. 

Annoying. 

A N N O Y I N G .'

 

'Stop breathing. It is annoying.

Stop gulping. It is annoying.

Stop moving. It is annoying.

Stop. Existing.

It. Is. Annoying.'

 

ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING

YOU’RE SO SO ANNOYING

YOUR SIMPLE EXISTENCE IS SO ANNOYING.

 

S O

A N N O Y I N G

Y O U

A R E

S T O P

I  T

R I G H T

N O W

STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP

S T O P

E X I S T I N G

DIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIE

Just simply die.

 

And so, I assumed that I was annoying just because I was there, in that spot, at that time, with my shameful self.

And so, I calculated the ways in which I would breathe, gulp, even move.

I did not eat. I did not drink.

I was half present and half past.

 

I wish I could’ve defrosted, right then and there.

I wish that I could have had the power to break free

From the curse of my own psyche.

From the chains of my painful past.

So many wishes, unfulfilled and withered away.

Still, all I could do is try to win this match, but I sadly lost.

The show was over. The time has come for me to leave.

The remnants of my attempts were put in a box and carefully brought back home.

 

I feel shame. Deep, deep shame, sprinkled with annoyance and even deeper sadness.

Trauma can linger on for so long, for as long as you let it.

I wish I could just simply get past this and move on, yet I am still at the restaurant,

Still at the moments that make me want to pluck my eyes out and tear my ears down

The moments that made me feel like all that I am doing, all that I am, is just simply wrong.

Existing was simply wrong.

 

And in the end, all of this is something I probably needed right now.

It is painful, yes, but at the same time, at least I have become, once again, aware of the existence of this wound. Reminded of its existence and its power over me. The wound that keeps on growing inside of me if I continue feeding it so much.

The wound of one’s sheer existence. The wound of the liability, of the one that was too much even while trying to be as little as it could. The wound made by a parent so mad at the world, all this anger had to be poured over the ones they were supposed to love most.

 

I do wish I was loved more as a child. That I wouldn’t constantly have to question if my parents were even glad to have me in their life or if I just ruined it completely by just simply existing.

I wish that in order to make sense of it all, I could’ve went forward with other mindsets. That I could’ve chosen to not hate myself so much for what was happening around me and to me.

It was not my fault. I wish I could have known this sooner. I wish that someone could have told me in ways in which I could have actually believed them back then.

Yet no one was able to make me believe it, for there were too many things that were pointing straight towards me: 'YOU, YOU ARE AT FAULT. YOUR EXISTENCE DESTROYED ME. I WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN. I WISH I NEVER GAVE BIRTH TO SUCH A THING AS YOU ARE.'

'YOU MONSTER.'

 

I often wonder if I am, indeed, a monster. If I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If all the warmth I give and want to give to the world is actually genuine, or if it is just a mask to hide the ugliness of my heart and mind.

Could I ever become kind enough to make these feelings go away? Could I ever truly change the core of my long-lasting belief, the belief that I am inherently damaged and unfixable?

I am truly working on it. I am putting in so much work, and I do see progress. Lots of it.

Still, there’s this lingering feeling in the back of my mind, feeling that’s patiently waiting for the right time to come out.

 

I hope that one day, I will be able to hold it near and tell it wonderful things. I hope that it will sit, listen, and truly believe all that I am telling it. That its core has been made of spikes and poison, how the more it goes back the more it will hurt. But also, how this very core can be cured, can become not so painful anymore, can become a place which can welcome better things in, things that do not hurt that much anymore.

 

For I am a creature of this universe, a creature that may not be able to exist in the same ways as others, but that doesn’t make me unworthy of things, that doesn’t make me something that should be feared, some scary and dangerous thing. That I shouldn’t bring danger neither on others nor upon myself.

 

That I am me: damaged, flawed, body and soul covered in invisible bruises and unhealed wounds. Yet despite all of this, I can be kind, I can be gentle, I can pick myself up and try, again and again, to be better than what I received, better than the way I was perceived, better than the voices inside my head tell me that I am and I can be.

 

I am capable of change. I am capable of healing. I am capable of growing and blossoming into beautiful trees and flowers.

It might not be today, or tomorrow, or the day after that. It might take weeks, months, years.

Still, I am capable of being more than I was given and more than I am expected to become. My potential shall have no limits.

 

Grow, heal, change.

about the meanings of life, the filling of voids and the alienation of self. or so i think, at least.

 

Life is meaningless and full of despair. Each step you take seems to be of no use, of no importance, of no actual purpose at all. You just drag your feet around in dirty mud, hoping that the hardships will make you stronger and will bring you to your destination, a destination you aren’t even aware of. '

When does it all end? When will I finally see the flowers bloom and the sun shine? What is the meaning of all of this?' – you sit and wonder, while you’re once again struck by life’s unexpected and painful lessons that you have to learn and roads you have to take.

Can your only purpose be to learn from your previous life’s mistakes? Are we put into these circumstances, into this specific family, specific country and specific situation, so that it can pave the way towards what we have to learn? Is the only point of this experience just learning? And so, when you finally learn all of your lessons, then what? Is it then your time to go?

And what about young children that die? The ones that are never born? Are they learning or actually teaching lessons to others? What about those that never actually learn their lessons in this lifetime? What about learning some lessons and not being able to learn other ones? What happens next? Is a lifetime enough to actually learn it all from your previous lifetimes? Are previous lives even a real thing?

When I sat down in front of my laptop, I did not think that this will be what I’m going to write. I had a wonderful idea of a story I wanted to start, and still, these questions, these words slipped out of my subconscious mind and I just felt that I had to address them somehow. I am so full of questions, so uncertain about what the actual fuck I have to do on this Earth. Each path I go through doesn’t feel quite right. It is shaky, full of uncertainty, full of doubt and nausea. I started with a beautifully crafted wall of talking about you, the reader, not me, like it wasn’t something that I was wondering and that I was and am experiencing all along. This feeling of everything is full of nonsense or that it should all have a bigger purpose than this pathetic human mind can comprehend… a constant battle inside of my mind. Why am I here? Why can’t I actually feel like any route I walk on is the route I shall be actually taking? Why does everything just feel… so wrong? So meaningless? So soul-crushingly painful and useless?

I keep on writing and on writing whatever enters my conscious mind, figuring that maybe, just maybe, the real answer will somehow slip out and I will finally feel fulfilled, free, full of purpose and with a drive to go on. Still, I don’t think that I can find the answer by just exploring whatever comes in my mind. The answer is probably hidden somewhere safe, locked in a safe per say, in a desolate, untraceable island in the middle of nowhere.

There’s this certain hunger: the hunger for knowledge, for answers to my lifelong questions that seem to have no actual answers whatsoever. I FEEL SUCH HUNGER FOR IT THAT I COULD EAT UP THE WHOLE WORLD. Still, I resort myself to filling up this insatiable hunger with some food, thinking that it will make me less hungry, less uncomfortable, that it will fill the actual void that life brought with it. It fills it up temporarily, yet it is never enough. The slight knowledge I gather from time to time isn’t enough. A whole house filled with these jellies would never be enough. The chance of eating the whole world and then some wouldn’t be enough either. This hunger can never be tamed, can never be stopped. I fear that I might end up feeling this insatiable hunger for all of my life, that no body, no soul could ever help me get rid of it.

Each time, when I find myself consuming these things, I dream that it will be the last time. Still, there never comes a last time. I always crave them, and more often than not, they take over my body and mind, they control me, I’m not in control of how much I eat. I become blinded by the sensations it brings, even though it only lasts for a couple of moments. Then, when I wake up, I am filled with shame, disgust, disdain. I look at the bag of whatever I decided to fill my void with. I look at it and want to throw it as far as possible. I want to throw myself as far as possible. From the world. From people. From every little connection that I have.

I try to run away from these thoughts. Even right now, when I am already faced with them. How much do I think that burying my head in a phone and searching for distractions will actually work? It won’t work. At the end of the day, I still feel disconnected, alone, alienated, unfit for this earth and for its society. For its people that walk it. For I feel like I am the last piece of a puzzle, but guess what? I don’t fit in. There’s only one piece of this puzzle that needs to be put in, and still, it doesn’t fit in. And why is that? Why do I continuously, endlessly, needlessly feel this way? What can I actually do to not feel like this anymore? How can I shapeshift into the last piece of this damned puzzle the world needs?

The insanity of this is insane in itself. I wish I could just ignore these things and not have to contemplate my actions, my random thoughts, my whole being. How beautiful it would be to just… rest them aside, in peace. Yet I cannot, for I have always been like this, for I was always driven by a curiosity as insatiable as my hunger: for knowledge, for meaning, for connection, for belonging and all of that.

So I will just lay these thoughts on a random website, on a random day. Maybe, one day, these words and thoughts will flourish and have some meaning. But for now, I’ll let them out and make something of it.

What is this even? Does it make any sense I wonder?

It might, or it might not. It might be as senseless as I feel about most things. Or it might mean anything, everything, all at once.