Four four weeks I’ve been absent. My head tangled in sharp threads of worry and doubt. Stress hung around my neck like a
noose. I was in the gallows just waiting for the floor below me to open up and swallow me whole.
I don’t think I would have minded if it did.
The cause of all this was simply nothing. Just extra work. The workload I faced was higher than ever before. It was not anything emotional or personal and yet the tears that stung my midnight cheeks and the broken heart that tore through my chest each evening told me otherwise.
I don’t know (and I don’t think I ever will) know if it was just raging hormones paired with the intense stress of school causing tension in my relationships and the immense feeling of loneliness to grow. But even if it is just a phase in my life that will pass, it will always be there.
These past four weeks will stain my record of happiness forever. I have always thought of myself as a generally pleasurable person. It takes a lot to upset me and generally my grief lasts no longer than an hour. But since last year, I have periods; days, weeks even, where I have gone with small moments of happiness but mainly grief tainted days. These are the worst things I have experienced in my life.
I like to look at the simple things in life as beautiful. I am thankful for every single thing that happens. Small things really get me. When my friend says my hair looks nice, when the wifi works properly, when I see a pretty bird, little jokes in class, talking about my day, arguing about politics with my friends. I enjoy friendly conversations, little get togethers, Instagram posts, reading a good book. There is so much that makes me happy in an instant.
That’s why these weeks have been hell. I have begun to overlook the little things and focus on what stresses me most. A series of late nights crying and stressing all alone. My parents go to bed before I complete all of my work. I usually skip supper (I always have, but usually I sit with my family and chat). I am left alone to do my work and worry about whether or not I can hold up by myself. I think that they think I want to be alone. I really don’t though.
I wish that I was more open. I wish that I could tell people what I was going through. All my parents see is that I am a brilliant, hard-working child. My marks tell them that. My drive tells them that. What they haven’t seen where the solitary hours I spend slaving away at the very thing that eats at me for most of my day. They don’t see me turn off all the lights and walk up to bed, alone, lost in the music.
They don’t see what my face looks like when I just wake up and just before I go to bed. It ages. I feel as if the skin is running down my skull like icing on a cake. My eyes are blood-shot as if I were high. When I look in the mirror and see this, it scares me. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever be okay.
I haven’t had time to do much other than work. Luckily, the holidays are coming up and so I decided to start this blog. I feel as if having time to yourself makes you want to discover who you truly are. If I am so sad when I am alone, I want to see what it is like to take pieces of me and lay them out before my very eyes. I hope that not a lot of it is depressing.
I have a feeling that this will be all over the place. Some of it factual and realisations that I have made, some of it complete abstract and random. I may write poetry or stories. But I want to have a record of my mind. Perhaps, in 20 years time I will look back and find myself a little crack into my past self.
And although this blog started due to my depressed state, I hope it changes. I hope that I go back to the happy person I usually am. And I hope that it is reflected here. I want to know that I’m okay.
Writing is better than therapy, after all ;).