Everyone has a game face. It's the one we so carefully apply in the mornings before we go out, the one that is confident, or sexy, or intelligent; witty, intense, brilliant; energetic, laid back, smouldering. It doesn't matter your personality, we all care about the face we present to the world around us. It's a carefully constructed publicity act, and I'm over it.
If I had to describe my emotional state at this point in time, I would ask you to imagine an abandoned city that has fallen into various states of decay and destruction. There are a couple tanks rolling around in the rubble, and trails of luggage, contents strewn, wind their ways through the chaos. Now imagine there is a small square filled with rubble, but in the middle there is a small clear area. In the center of the flat, clean section is a single white porcelain tea cup. It is uncracked, unmarred, pure in color and weakly translucent in the cold light.
I am more fragile than I care to admit. The pain of my need bears down on my chest like a vacuum. That small tea cup in the center of a wasted city is all that is left of my rational existence. Everything else has been torn away in the desolation that has been the semester so far. I wish I could say that these expressions are mere hyperbole on my part, but the sad truth is that my predictions of last fall were entirely correct. I hate being right sometimes.
Not to overstress my point, but on any given day, I know I am only a few minutes away from a complete and total breakdown. Every morning I struggle with myself about whether the world is really worth the effort it takes to drag my sorry carcass out of bed, let alone shower, dress, or go to class. I missed two morning classes this week for that very reason: the world offered no compelling reason to care about it, and the oblivion of sleep is preferable to the continued state of stress that is my entire life right now.
I must insert a note to my self from a few years ago. I know you read this and judge it. "Big deal," you say, "she doesn't want wake up in the morning. How is this any different than the rest of us mortals who have to deal with the same type of life as us?" I know you sneer at me, Problematic, but I also know you know what this it is. While I normally pride myself on my words, I have no others than these.
I'm not speaking of enjoying sleep. Any person in their right mind would. Rather, there is a certain perverse part of my mind that, every night before I sleep, hopes against hope that I would simply never wake up again. It's not a death wish, it's not active, but I have once again begun to engage with that frustrating dichotomy in Philippians 1:21 - "For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain."
There is a taut balance in my life as late. I really lost it earlier in the week, and the last few days have established a new, fragile equilibrium in my mind. I am running on emergency life support systems. I am a tea cup in a ruined city. I am a red balloon caught in the currents of a storm.
I am tired of my charade, and I am tired of my mask. Sometimes we get caught up in the spiritual arguments for continued existence, and believe me, I do not discount them. Were it not for those arguments against self-annihilation, I may have considered that option more seriously. As it is, though, I have finally realized why I keep a bucket list: the things on those lists are there not because I want to level up in life. I keep a bucket list to remind myself that there are physical, literal things in this world to keep on living for. At times like this, it's the small things that keep me going. The touch of a friend, the conversation, and above all, an overwhelming, annoying sense of responsibility and guilt that keeps me up at night but is the really the only reason I get out of bed anymore.
I don't want pity, and I don't want judgment. I do, however, want to be honest. If you still don't understand, read this poem. Because I'm not sure how else to say this.
I am tired, and I am ready to go home.
If I had to describe my emotional state at this point in time, I would ask you to imagine an abandoned city that has fallen into various states of decay and destruction. There are a couple tanks rolling around in the rubble, and trails of luggage, contents strewn, wind their ways through the chaos. Now imagine there is a small square filled with rubble, but in the middle there is a small clear area. In the center of the flat, clean section is a single white porcelain tea cup. It is uncracked, unmarred, pure in color and weakly translucent in the cold light.
I am more fragile than I care to admit. The pain of my need bears down on my chest like a vacuum. That small tea cup in the center of a wasted city is all that is left of my rational existence. Everything else has been torn away in the desolation that has been the semester so far. I wish I could say that these expressions are mere hyperbole on my part, but the sad truth is that my predictions of last fall were entirely correct. I hate being right sometimes.
Not to overstress my point, but on any given day, I know I am only a few minutes away from a complete and total breakdown. Every morning I struggle with myself about whether the world is really worth the effort it takes to drag my sorry carcass out of bed, let alone shower, dress, or go to class. I missed two morning classes this week for that very reason: the world offered no compelling reason to care about it, and the oblivion of sleep is preferable to the continued state of stress that is my entire life right now.
I must insert a note to my self from a few years ago. I know you read this and judge it. "Big deal," you say, "she doesn't want wake up in the morning. How is this any different than the rest of us mortals who have to deal with the same type of life as us?" I know you sneer at me, Problematic, but I also know you know what this it is. While I normally pride myself on my words, I have no others than these.
I'm not speaking of enjoying sleep. Any person in their right mind would. Rather, there is a certain perverse part of my mind that, every night before I sleep, hopes against hope that I would simply never wake up again. It's not a death wish, it's not active, but I have once again begun to engage with that frustrating dichotomy in Philippians 1:21 - "For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain."
There is a taut balance in my life as late. I really lost it earlier in the week, and the last few days have established a new, fragile equilibrium in my mind. I am running on emergency life support systems. I am a tea cup in a ruined city. I am a red balloon caught in the currents of a storm.
I am tired of my charade, and I am tired of my mask. Sometimes we get caught up in the spiritual arguments for continued existence, and believe me, I do not discount them. Were it not for those arguments against self-annihilation, I may have considered that option more seriously. As it is, though, I have finally realized why I keep a bucket list: the things on those lists are there not because I want to level up in life. I keep a bucket list to remind myself that there are physical, literal things in this world to keep on living for. At times like this, it's the small things that keep me going. The touch of a friend, the conversation, and above all, an overwhelming, annoying sense of responsibility and guilt that keeps me up at night but is the really the only reason I get out of bed anymore.
I don't want pity, and I don't want judgment. I do, however, want to be honest. If you still don't understand, read this poem. Because I'm not sure how else to say this.
I am tired, and I am ready to go home.
