After what seemed to be an eternity of not writing and posting on my Medium page, I’m finally mustering some courage to face myself on “paper” again with a pen.
On how I am the greatest bully I have ever known…to my damned self. Name any type of mental suffering and I’ll be able to tell you an anecdote about it. My inner thought-scape rises and boils and decays into dantesque abysses on most of the bad days, if not all. A gulf; devoid of gratitude, flexibility of thought, mindfulness but full of time travels between the past and all kinds of infernal futures. Doom. Doom and the hole it slowly pierces through my heart, and the tingles it sends down my spine in synchronicity with thick pearls of tears in the dark. They say our brains aggravate risk and work to protect us from discomfort. Risk-averse humans. And here you have my mind excelling at magnifying my mishaps, mistakes, angst, self-doubt, aborted self-esteem and buried self-love, to send me to hell for rumination. On how I never deserved grace. Talk about exaggeration.
Those are the long hours during which, depressed, anxious and helpless, I freeze in terror under the harm I inflict upon myself. Needlessly. And I know of metacognition quite well. Well enough to sometimes mistrust the other voice, the soothing one which intends to save me from Hell. Because in those instances nothing feels realer than the piercing pain I feel in my chest. And nothing sounds emptier than the promise that everything will be fine when it’s the fifth breakdown of the week.
There is nothing I wish for more than to love myself unconditionally. Than to free myself from the grip of silently killing trauma. And I’m more than willing to get the help I can to achieve this goal.
© MFA. 2021
