When trying to explain how I feel, I often use the analogy of being at the starting line of a sprint. My feet are firmly planted in position, and my hands are pressed firmly on the floor, my focus fixated on the finish line straight ahead. There is no crowd, and no one next to me. Silence envelops my surroundings, heightening the intensity of the moment. Suddenly, an announcer shouts, “Ready, Set,” and that’s where it stops. The crucial word that I need to hear never comes. I can feel the rubbery, sandy grit of the track with my fingers. I can feel the pressure of my feet against the angled blocks. There is momentum, untapped and ready to ignite, but until I hear the word “Go” I cannot release it. Excitement becomes trepidation, weighed down with fear. My heart beats rapidly in anticipation, and I remain on high alert so as to not miss my cue. My senses are attuned to the forthcoming command and all I can do is wait. I am besieged by an overwhelming sense of dread, and I become stuck. Here’s the fun part though; I will never be granted the opportunity to run. I will never hear the word “Go.”
This stagnant state of anticipation embodies the paralysis that plagues me. The starting line turns into a metaphor for life, and being permitted to run becomes a symbol for breaking free from the shackles that hold me back (depression, anxiety). In a wider sense, it can sometimes feel as if the world is moving around me while I am stuck in situ. My aspirations and ambitions become crushed by the weight of my emotional burdens, and each day gets lost in some sort of suspended animation. Am I doomed to float passively through these days? Anguish stifles my joy and motivation, no matter how desperate I am to change, I remain on hold at the starting line.
In my desperation, I seek solace within my phone. It offers a momentary respite but it is fleeting. It’s nothing more than a digital distraction. With updates, images, narratives, I am able to detach myself from my own existence. Floods of information wash over me, but below the surface, all I am doing is fuelling my own feelings of inadequacy and doubt. I immerse myself in conversations online so that I may find validation or gain an understanding, but I am no fool, and I know that these are mere distractions masking real pain. Alas I continue to avoid confronting the problems, and perpetuate my disconnection from the world. My phone shields me from actual human interaction (where I may again get hurt) but it only serves to amplify my feelings of isolation. I can no longer find the line between seeking peace and surrendering myself to the allure of escapism.
This is why I started my blog. It’s why I have two journals. It’s why I write. There are healthy outlets for self-expression, connections, and introspection. The convenience of my phone and of social media does not provide the healing I need, but like an addict I cannot put it down. As I’ve written about before, I also have a peculiar addiction to feeling…bad. It’s a counterintuitive paradox to anyone who doesn’t suffer from this brand of depression, but it is completely true. In the back of my mind, there is comfort in being sad. It has turned into a companion over the years, and unwelcome yet reliable guest inside my home. Sorrow becomes proof that I am alive, albeit a perverse proof. It’s seductive too, as it tells me happiness is nothing more than a dream for stupid people, or a state of being that is reserved for everyone but me, and I need none of it. Having followed this path for most of my life, the prospect of joy can seem intimidating. To combat this addiction, I need to confront the pain and trauma that has shaped this warped perception of myself and the world around me, and believe me I have tried. Just look back at my blog posts, you’ll see how I’ve tried.
Amidst all this bullshit comes one force that can take me out of the race. It is a gentle current that pushes me in a new direction. In the presence of this force, time slows down as I take stock of the precious moments we share together. It’s steadfast, it’s unwavering, and it stands in complete contrast to everything I have described so far. It exists in the beauty of an unspoken connection, and even in the ache of unfulfilled desires. Despite the longing, there is a sense of gratefulness for the opportunity and privilege to feel love. It is an anchor, and it is a reminder. It can be devastating, particularly if I give in to the feelings of unworthiness and doubt, but it is worth it. I have spent a long time trying to learn the dance between honesty and self-preservation. Love requires vulnerability, as I wrote in a piece about equating it to gambling at a casino, and to be vulnerable we need to open ourselves up and understand who we are. It demands communication, compassion, and understanding with ourselves and others. In this way, it is more of a tool than my writing could ever be, and this is why it is so dangerous. I am better now at not limiting my capacity to experience love in the wider sense of the word. There are bonds with friends, family, and strangers. There are acts of kindness, and of empathy. I open myself up to a spectrum of human connections, and in doing so I have learned that relationships are ever-evolving. From this comes resilience and adaptability, two traits I believe to be important in life.
Yet still, I recognise the unique value and depth that individual connections can bring into our lives. There is a world of perspectives out there, and I have encountered many of them, but sometimes there’s one voice that drowns the rest out. Sometimes, some of us are lucky enough to find someone who tells us we can “Go.”