It’s back. Doesn’t mean much in the context of this blog, given during its absence I never visited this blog, but now it returns, and thus so do I.

The last five months have been good. Actually good. Relative to the preceding 4 years, they have been fucking fantastic. An upwards trajectory, space to breathe, an opportunity to figure out who I am, for the first time in years.

But now it is back. I knew it would return, the road to recovery is bumpy, nobody has said that more than me over the last 5 months, I suppose a way to prepare myself for an inevitable relapse, and an attempt to preempt my equally inevitable terror that this is it, that I had my chance at happiness, and now Im sad again, and this is it, for the rest of my life.

I want to die, again. I would say it is surprising how fast I came back to that conclusion, but it’s really not, I have known at the back of my mind the entire time that suicidal thoughts are far too imprinted into my mind. Even while happy, seeing a car whizz by, a steep drop only a couple steps away, a pile of pills that would likely kill me, my first thought is: “Huh, I could kill myself, should I?” My response while happy is largely, “Uh, shut up brain, no I do not, ” but now, now that the misery has returned, now that the pit opens up beneath me once again, now my response is once again an internal debate on the merits of life and death, an equation of misery that has always concluded that life is just about the option to choose.

For now.

This is probably just a blip, a moment of misery, a quick drop in an overall positive trajectory. But it may not be, and that possibility terrifies me. I do not want to die, I want to die about as much as the average person does, but I want to spend another four years in excruciating misery even less, so I conclude that that is the trajectory I am heading it, maybe I need to re-evaluate that equation.

-SelfInsertCharacter

There seems to be a paradox somewhere within my fundamental core of being that creates and endless loop I keep getting myself stuck in.

As a child, you simply do what you want, for the most part, you’re selfish, not evil, and perhaps you will follow rules or do good things, but more for the potential punishment or reward than actual good faith.

Slowly however you are taught that everyone else is a person, and so are you, and its important to recognise and analyse your actions to make sure they aren’t doing harm to those around you. This is the base tenet of “Self-Awareness”.

Slowly you gain this awareness of further aspects of yourself, you start to realise the reasons you do things, and how silly they are, and start to re-evaluate your actions and move forward a different, more sensible person. This is a very satisfying process, as you come out the end feeling very much like you are a more mature person than you went in.

But eventually it becomes harder and harder to reach this, the epiphanies regarding your own actions come further and further apart and you start to fear that maybe you’re not just reaching “maximum maturity”, but rather just becoming less self-aware, and so you start analysing yourself.

Why are you doing this, why are you doing that, that’s silly. Then you realise the act of judging every action is silly, life is meant to be enjoyed, then you realise simplifying life to such a degree is silly, you need a more mature outlook, then you realise constantly striving more “maturity” is actually a very immature thing to do, and around and around it goes, it begins to seem like it never ends, everything you do is stupid, everything you do is silly, your base fundamentals are naive and overly simplistic, regardless of how much you try and change that to escape this.

Earlier today I wrote something, call it a poem maybe. It wasn’t good, but even if it was, the fundamental concept behind it seems childish. To write such a dramatic, overly metaphorical piece seems almost arrogant, as though I think myself so smart and artistic to have transcended normal communication. It’s the kind of thing you can see a cliche “emo” 14 year old do as she shouts at her mum to fuck off. Me of two years ago would have cringed.

But despite feeling all that, I wrote it. Perhaps finally I have gotten over my constant self judgement on constantly seeming perfectly self-aware on everything I do, but more likely I am simply at the stage of the cycle at which I conclude that self-awareness is dumb, I should just do what feels right, what feels good, so long as it isn’t hurting those around me. Perhaps within a few months I will look back and cringe, god what an idiot I was, did I really think that was clever?

Perhaps not, either way, the constant striving towards a seemingly unattainable goal of being constantly, 100% self aware seems foolish, not only because its impossible, but also because even if it wasn’t, is the end goal even something that I want?

I can’t quite remember when I began falling.

I remember a time before.

And I remember now.

And I have memories leading up to this point.

But the beginning.

The point where standing faded into falling.

The beginning is lost to me.

 

Now I simply fall.

It’s not so bad, really.

You get used to it, at least.

But the fear never really goes away.

 

At first you fear the bottom of the pit.

The splat.

But the bottom never comes.

Then you fear for food.

The hunger rises within you.

But it never consumes you.

Then you fear the future.

An eternity of falling.

But you can grab the edge.

Then you fear the past.

Then you let go.

 

This bit I only just started writing.

I grab the edge.

The friction hurts my fingers.

I almost let go.

But I hold on.

I look up.

Darkness.

I start climbing.

Darkness.

My grip loosened

But I hold on.

I keep climbing.

I see the top.

I see it.

I see it.

It’s bright.

It’s so bright, so terrifying.

I almost fall.

I keep climbing.