Greetings Barbarians! Long days and pleasant nights. February is about to end in a few days, and I wish I am optimistic as I was in January. It was a challenging month for my mental health. As someone who struggled with depression, getting caught in its vicious cycle again is the last thing I want.
Last week, I missed my post. I was not even active in my social media outlets. I only want to stay in bed and get up when it is time to work. I do not eat much, limiting myself to a meal a day. I sometimes would order pizza to spend time with the kid, hoping her company would cheer me up.
It is somewhat peculiar because I finally managed to pay off my credit card debt last week. At long last, I settled it after months of hard work. It is a milestone that I should be celebrating. I now have the means to provide for my daughter. But, I cannot seem to take comfort in that. For some reason, I cannot pat myself on the back. That is when I figured something was wrong. It feels like it is not enough – I am inadequate.
The Story of Survival
Do not get me wrong – I am grateful for everything. But I often wonder if being in survival mode for so long has left me broken. Did it leave me incapable of experiencing the simple joys in life? Am I no longer capable of happiness?
It made me think of those movies where they rescue some schmuck stranded on an island. They did manage to survive. Yet, they looked like a corpse walking among men. There is a tinge of sadness to it if you think about it.
Again, my suffering is in no way equal to those who survived life-or-death situations. But I cannot help but wonder if I will ever shake off this feeling of inadequacy. Will I ever be enough?
All my life, I believed in Nietzche’s Amor Fati – the Love of Fate. If I could choose to live my life over and over again, would I choose to do it? Would I choose to live knowing that I am not good enough whatever I do?
Perhaps, I am becoming paranoid. There is always this impending sense of dread regardless of what I do. It feels like no matter how much money I got, the bank would still seize our house. I would end up homeless, helpless, and alone no matter what.
Ever since the ordeal with our house began, I put my life on hold. I cannot seem to move forward. All I can do is roll with the punches, hoping that the next blow does not finish me off.
Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second’s encounter with God and with eternity.― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist
I am well aware that this is my anxiety talking. I know that this, much like other things, will pass. It makes me anxious as I write this. Have I reached the point of no return? If I have, will my life be nothing more than an effort to survive?
Will I ever thrive and not just get by?
I want to experience life again and enjoy every moment with my daughter. The days will not always be pleasant, but it has a promise. I long to bask in the warmth of the sun and the comfort of a home.
Maybe, I am getting a little impatient. But then again, I do not have a habit of waiting, not for anyone or anything. If I can do it now, I get on with it. But these days, I am tired and hungry – with no place to go on.
I cannot rest; there is so much work to do. Rest is only for frail men riding off to the sunset. The warmth of a home maybe is not for me. But then again, I have walked this path on my own for so long. Why stop now?
Perhaps that is what I need to accept. I am a survivor.
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