You know that one girl with warm sunshine eyes, leaving behind a trail of happy faces everywhere she goes, her mere presence enough to light up the deepest darkest corners of your heart — I was her. Emphasis on was. Now I’ve morphed myself into a harbinger of doom. I’m the doom.
I’ve started staying up late into the night, long after the lights go out, curtains come down and people walk out the exit door, stepping into the realm of dreams. There’s something about the silent solitude of the moonlit night that reaches deep within me to tug at the dusty untouched chords — places I don’t let people reach. Because every time I let them in, they walk out with more than their hands can carry, a lot more than they should. A lot more than I should let them take away.
I blast melancholia on full volume to numb away the voices screaming into the abyss of my emptiness. And I grieve, that’s the only thing I’m capable of anymore. I have forgotten what happy feels like. I have forgotten how to feel anything at all.
Knee deep into this numbness, when midnight offers me misery, I hastily grab it and gulp it down before it burns my mouth. But I savour the last sip just enough for the aftertaste to linger and morph into poetry. Ask any artist and you’ll know the best of their pieces are born out of worst of their times.
I’ve been in this numb, momentarily melancholic state for so long now, it has warped itself into a home. I don’t want to try any ‘mindfulness meditations’ or ‘joy cultivating’workshops. I like it this way. This barely beautiful brokenness grips me when my clinginess pushes others away. It caresses me all through the lonely teary nights, stroking my weakest spots to draw out meatiest stories and ravishing rhymes.
I listen to music without hearing a single word. No combination of syllables is enough to fulfil me anymore. After hours of reading ‘substantial literature’ for inspiration, my pages still lay blank. I watch disturbing movies hoping they’d make me feel something — rage, guilt, pity, longing, disgust — anything but this numbness.
I wake up long after the world has begun their day, blurring the lines between breakfast and lunch, sometimes having none. My appetite has aversed itself to everything I once adored. Nothing is appealing enough to entice it anymore. I lock myself into a dull corner of a silent room, erasing my existence from the lives of everyone around me. It’s been more than 2 weeks of isolation now and I don’t know if it’s funny or depressing that no one has noticed. Not even the ‘close ones’.
How can it be so brush-under-carpet-able when you stop hearing from the girl who earlier had to be begged to shut up. Guess they were secretly relieved and didn’t want to address it with the fear of having to face it again.
But it doesn’t matter. Nothing does. I felt too much when I shouldn’t have and now there’s nothing left. I’ve forgotten how to feel and I don’t know what I’ve become.
And this isn’t some story about how I conquered my mental health issues. Though it might be somewhere down the line, a few weeks, months or years later when I’ll finally crawl my way out of this apathy and fall into the void of humanness screaming, crying, laughing, loving, hating, despising, missing, craving — feeling.
Until then, this is me, refusing to shush the voice screaming within begging to be heard, untangling myself from the binding dogmatic beliefs that pretend mental health doesn’t exist and shame those who talk of it. Closing your eyes doesn’t make things go away. Hiding behind the facade of having it all together doesn’t heal the broken parts of your soul.
Cause I’m only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I’m only human
And I crash and I break down
– Human, Christina Perri
Being broken isn’t bad. It’s human. And broken colours still colour.