Dark Places

I am writing this because we need to talk about mental health. I am writing this because we cannot let the stigma associated with mental health win.

The secret of writing is to just let the words flow, without thinking about whether or not any of it makes sense. Just as long as it makes sense in your head, it’s fine. Well, at least that is what I tell myself. I am not even quite sure of what qualifies as writing. Is it this? Just expression. Or is it twisting and turning your words so that they sound like the kinda poetry or prose that drop your heart to your stomach, because they are just that great.

Weird way to express greatness, isn’t it?

In all honesty, I don’t know what I am doing with my life. I don’t know where I am headed, and for a 22 year old who thought she had her life planned out, well, that’s just horrible…and embarrassing. See, the thing is, I quit my job about 4-5 months ago, and since then I have just sort of been hanging by a thread of ‘now-what’. And everyday is a cycle of now-what. I tell myself to apply for uni, or to at least take all the online courses I signed myself up for seriously, but there is this massive massive massive rock inside me, and it tells me that, “ugh, do it tomorrow”. Tomorrow turned into a week, tomorrow turned into a month, and now tomorrow has turned into December the first. So I am writing this, thinking now-what now-what now-what now-what. I try to escape my thoughts by reading. I read about war or some crazy shit, and I try to make sense of things, I try to understand why why why stuff like this has to happen.

Making sense of things. Now that’s a whole different story. See, for me, no matter how hard I try, an incident – any incident – from my past just feels the need to replay itself in my mind. Either as I am about to sleep or just as soon as I wake up. So I lie there, thinking and thinking hard about why it happened, or why things didn’t happen, or why I didn’t try hard enough or why I tried too hard, just a series of why-this, why-that. This feeds on my soul and pushes me deeper into that dark place of now-what. Thinking about the past is useless, I know. But it has shaped me, it has made me who I am today, and the more I try to make sense of it, the more I will understand my behaviour towards myself and other people better.

See, I am never just one-way, I am sunny one minute, I am cold the other, I blossom for a while, then I let everything fade. And currently, I am just letting everything fade. I don’t remember what used to drive me to do well. I don’t remember the last time I planned out what my life should look like. I don’t remember much. I don’t remember.

They say you shouldn’t complain about the life you have because other people would die for a life like yours. I think about this a lot. I think about what it must be like to be someone else, just for a while. I think about what life must be like on that part of the world. Or what fame must taste like. So then I take to reading, I read books and for a while, I phase out reality. The book, its people, their lives, they all become mine. Books. T.V. shows. Anything that is there – in that parallel universe.

We all are in each-others’ lives, and for some reason, we all lead different lives. All the angles, directions, perceptions that shape us are totally different. We may experience the day together, but what we make of it is very seldom the same. I wonder why this is. I wonder whether I am making any sense.

I don’t talk to many people. People often class me off as quiet. Quiet Meera, and that’s all I am, that is my identity. Silence is often intriguing, and a handful of people have cared enough to see what lies beyond my silence. I think a lot about all the people that know me – not just my quietness – but me. Me. Meera. I think about how much I’ve opened up to them. How much of my heart and my mind I have spilled out to them. I’ve always thought of opening up as terrifying, because then, all your weaknesses, your vulnerabilities, your strengths even, are just there. They know how you do and do not function. They just know. And, it is both oddly scary and oddly comforting.

They say we should be true to how we feel. So if this is exactly how I am feeling, how am I supposed to behave? I, myself, do not have the answer to that question. So, I laugh. I laugh about silly things. I make people laugh. And I try to bring back the focus into my life. I will go by day-to-day activities, I will write when I have to write, I will shoot a video when I have to shoot a video, I will eat, I will shower, I will talk about stuff, I will go back to sleep. I will repeat the cycle till I feel better. And I will feel better.

I know that I have felt like this many times before, and that it is a passing phase. I know I don’t have it as bad as other people, and I make my peace with that. I know that things will eventually work out, because lingering on to hope has been my saving grace for a very long time. I know that there are awesome people in my life that bring massive smiles to my face as soon I listen to their voices. I know it all too well, and I know I am not going to give up.

I know, I know, I know.

And I am sharing this because my mental health is not doing okay. And, I know I am not the only one who gets like this. I know that we all fall at some points, and sometimes one abyss is deeper than the other, but we gotta talk about it and be there for each other. So, I dedicate this to anyone that has felt this way. I dedicate this to myself. I am not defined by my sadness, I will come out of it and it is going to be awesome.