As I sit outside, the birds tweeting their last tweets, and the sunset filling the sky with a pink hue, I can’t help but worry.
It is the last thing that I should be doing, yet the only thing I seem to be doing. And I’m no longer quite sure why that is.
The dwindling energy I have at the moment upsets me, yet I find it not upsetting enough to make me ‘snap out of it.’ The numbness is creeping back in, seeing in and I am terrified. It has been so long since I felt quite this numb, maybe way back to how I felt four months in of my Year Abroad.
It has also been so long since I wrote, another likely reason I feel this way at present. I am both haunted by the rose-tinged glasses I see my life through, but completely angered when I realise I have been living and acting so selfishly. This duality is eating me up inside.
I shouldn’t be sat outside at this time of night. It’s England after all, and I am bound to catch a chill. But hearing those birds tweet, the train roar by, and witness the moon glow are enough for even a little peace to settle.
Vapour whistle out of the pipe of the house opposite, and to the left I see the spire of the Methodist Church. Even the way the weeds grow happily from the cracks in our walls intrigues me. And all over again, as easy as that, I am overthinking, overanalysing. Documenting and analysing a moment, rather than just letting it be.
I feel infuriated that I have put myself through so many moments of pain and anguish through fear of being a horrible person, or disliked by others. It’s not even about walking away from people, but things, memories, situations. I may have reached a point where I am so used to the pain that I am now numb to it. At least this current level.
Anything that I do that I love, I just feel pretentious doing. And pretentious enjoying.
What is worse is knowing that this is all in my head. It is great to know that it is in my control, but it is also a reality that I prefer to avoid because I can never just find a quiet moment where I don’t analyse my feelings, or am concerned about someone else’s.
It’s weird because I actively avoid counselling and therapy. I get so wrapped up in the fear of opening up and having to reanalyse situations and raconter l’histoire. I already have become so self-aware from having been turned away from counselling that something that wasn’t diagnosed as a real issue, is now way too deep, years deep, into an issue.
Good context for this post is how many times I have cried while writing. It was all done by hand, with a few breaks to blow my nose of course. I say this, and write all of this, not seeking pity. It isn’t easy to write these kind of realities down, and I write them down because I can never find the words to say them out loud without inducing the beginning of an emotional breakdown.
It is of course that time of the academic year where everything is heightened. And I should be so used to it now, but it feels different again, every time. It may be the last time I ever have to sit through this kind of pressure, but that is also unlikely.
I will find that joy again, it is not far from reach. In fact it is already surrounding me, I just hope the numbness subsides soon.