It has been a while since I digitally regurgitated my musings to you Maria. I’ve purposely neglected these thoughts because I felt like I was caught in a carousel of litany, perpetually sermonizing the same trepidations and worriment.
So I remained silent, mentally establishing an agreement to report on anything other than melancholy. But I missed this emotional outlet of ours and the undeniable world of good it did for me to finally vent; be it on deaf ears or not.
I was overly hopeful back then, believing that there would be much cheer to carouse upon. But these past weeks have regrettably seen no immediate change. Only much soul-searching and a vast amount of awakening and realisation.
Mostly about myself and where I stand in this world; amongst strangers and those who are dear to me.
I’ve become/have always been a drifter, moving without purpose, eyes fixated firmly to the ground. An outsider, an outcast to virtually everyone. I am invisible to the world, sometimes even myself. They can not see me, even if my eyes bore into theirs. They chose to ignore me or perhaps there are other forces at play.
My whole life I’ve been unable to meet the eyes of a passerby. And with good reason. I’ve continuously been told that I am not enough; not worthy of good. It’s a statement that is ingrained within, on par with my vital organs. As a lesser being I am compelled to bow my head and not make contact with my superiors.
Truthfully, I am not ready for the world to see me because I am a cluttered mess. I won’t allow anyone into this chaotic world of mine because it is so shamefully unappealing. I am embarrassed by the undignified way I live and how stagnant and cemented I am. It is a putrid web of shame, one that I’ve endlessly spent concealing from view, one that no one can actually comprehend.
As much as I yearn to be saved, I don’t want to be. Especially by a man. I need to rescue myself, however is essentially impossible without intervention.
I am a great contradiction.
Time is not on my side – it never has been. I can not wait another seven years for my name to be financially exonerated just so I can finally put a roof over my head. Just so I can taste freedom. I’ll be nearing forty by then. I’m battling with extremely intense anxiety over the fact that I’ll be thirty within months. And I can not be that age and still find myself living in my parents home, let alone give it more time.
I can’t live like this anymore.
Existing with so much restlessness and paranoia. Fearful of leaving the very premises I despise because every time I do, I feel my ears burn and my nape prick with judgement from those who peer through semi sheer lace curtains.
You couldn’t even call it living, more like surviving. I don’t think I’ve ever been at a stage in life where I’ve wanted to live as much as I do right now. And yet find myself pressed against a compressing rock with zero escape. My every breath constricting further, making the following breath unbearably shallow. It’s like the Universe is screaming at me to leave, no longer hinting but being brutally blunt. And as stubborn as I am, I refuse read between the lines. Pleading for chances that don’t exist.
At times I find myself even wondering if my time on this Earth ceased long ago, but death forgot to come for me.
This is not depression. This is utter hopelessness.