Isabela - Day 9

What does it mean to be free in a world bound to the limits of your imagination? What does it mean to be free in a world set on an endless run against the clock?

I remember looking through the window on a grey summer night. The cool wind brushed over the withered roses as memories across an agitated mind. I sighed, watching the juicy leaves dance to the sounds of silence and sing to a muted chorus of thorns and petals playing under the quiet breeze. I remember feeling lost. I recall hearing voices run across my troubled mind. I remember crying as they flew, screaming, across my spirit. They would never stop, they never ceased to torment me. My only way to silence them was to leave the stage to dreams and sink in Morpheus’ arms. Other than those few hours of peace of which I kept little recollection of, my mind was a raging fire. These thoughts, sounding in foreign voices, would never go away. I only wished for them to cease, I simply hoped for them to vanish and leave me alone. Looking back, it was a strange thought to have when dealing with a profound feeling of loneliness and confusion. I remember looking through the window on that grey summer night, my eyes flying with the wind. I recall the mesmerizing dance of the rain as it fell steadily, running along the window and into the depths of the earth. Most of the time I would feel as though I had been trapped in the wrong body and could almost sense an alien presence in my mind. I wasn’t alone. I knew I wasn’t alone and there was no more terrifying thought than the company of that Other.

Who am I?

My conviction that there was more than a single “I” living in my brain grew stronger as the years ticked by. I could hear these voices, I feared them, I respected them, I would always obey them. I had to obey them, I had no other choice. Their word was my only truth, their existence my reality. I guess that is what self-destruction is: the construction of an altered reality. Not a lie, simply murky waters. And this body, this useless body? To me, it was an empire of dust, the perfect road for a perpetual loop of perfectionism and dissatisfaction. Worthless.

I could now hear the rain fall steadily in this silent room filled with voices. Is it worth it? Is life worth living? I had lost myself in this clouded existence. It was terrifying. Most of the time, I would fear never being able to feel things fully again. Everything would seem dull, tasteless, empty. I would feel empty. And at that point, my emotions would become rational. Despite knowing that I cared for people around me, despite knowing that these feelings of love and care were reciprocated, there were times during which I could not feel them. It never lasted long, never more than a week. But it felt as though I was being killed alive. It felt like living in a body fighting to survive with a mind doing all that was possible to die.

I brushed a tear away with the back of my hand and brought my tired arm closer to my chest, How do you feel?

I was lost…scared, confused. I was scared. I was scared of others, petrified by my own being. I had never been more afraid than then to die alive, because this is what this prolonged game of anxiety and numbness felt like.

I allowed my fingers to dance back and forth on the shores of my fragile arm, like waves on sand. And even though I battled to breathe, I allowed my mind to wander and explore the geography of my sorrows. I was so grateful to at least feel something. Fear, pain, but at least I felt something—anything.

I used to feel as though I was being buried alive. I used to see myself dissociate. I used to feel like I was no longer in control of my body, no longer in control of my actions. I used to doubt reality, I would feel lost in a dream where all judgement had been retrieved from me. I used to feel like I was burying myself alive. Everything would race as I fought for air, I could almost see myself from outside as I would get trapped in a past I had long thought forgotten. At that point I would be given two options: keep fighting or give in.

The first one was simply the prolongation of agony. I would always give in and fall numb. Why keep fighting for air when you are being crushed by earth? No one lives underground, if you fight for too long, you might get lost in the raging flames of the underworld. Giving in feels like being pulled back to life only to drown a thousand times. It is crying without really knowing why and seeing your conscience materialize before your eyes. It is knowing you should fear this “feeling” without being able to feel that fear.

Tell me, when does it get easier? When will the voices go silent? And what do I do now? I do no longer know if I want to get better. Maybe I deserve to sink deeper and get lost in this pitiful loop. Maybe I simply deserve to disappear. I don’t know what I want anymore. I simply don’t know what I want.

I remember crying, sinking my head in my knees, arms wrapped around me. I’m—It’s okay.

I’m okay.

photo credit: https://www.christies.com/img/LotImages/2013/HGK/2013_HGK_03259_7176_000(ronald_ventura_numb).jpg