I've learnt that these three words may be the closest I can come to telling the truth. I don't know why I'm down sometimes. I don't know what triggers the sharp downward plunges in my mood. I'm fine for days at a time, and then, bam, that feeling, that opposite of happiness but not quite sadness. Sometimes it is a pea that balloons up in my face as the day drags by. I know what's coming when the skin breaks and it washes over me. Sometimes I'm happy and I turn around, and it hits me like a yellow school bus and I find I can't breathe properly. These are almost as bad. Maybe it's the idleness. Sitting down and chatting and having fun. Maybe I don't want to have fun because having fun makes me feel guilty. I can make sense of this guilt, but I don't want to. Because it whispers to me how much of a failure I am in all but the most insignificant of ways.
I'm tired of eating burnt rice. I'm sick of eating cold leftover rice on winter nights. So I cook pasta. But I want to eat rice. I like how this short paragraph speaks volumes about my life.
My life is about as exciting as my cooking. Day after day, I dance lightly around the elephant in the room, careful not to rouse it. It is so much easier to not feel, to just be. But I'm afraid to lose myself in this person I'm not for long periods at a time, because I am isolating the human part of myself in this little dark chamber in the folds of my mind and every day I do not take it out for a walk, it decays a little. I decay a little.
I tried running today and my ankle flared up again. Maybe it is enough to exist. To not overexert and overachieve and fuss over every minute detail. To go on, never more than one day at a time, and enjoy the scenery. Then maybe, I wouldn't attach all my expectations, all the important little bits of who I am, to a person I am not sure I can be.
Aaah. Again, this foul stench of guilt.