A Note to My Therapist: I’m Better

03/11/23 (11:03-11:29pm)

What’s up Doc,

Listen, this is an odd one. I know both of us seem to struggle with a lot of the same things for different reasons. I thought this might be a good skill since I shut down when talking about emotions. If I can write them, then we can skip that part. So I thought I’d start this series and see what happens. Maybe it’ll work, maybe not, but either way maybe it’ll help one of us. I’ll give you some of my old writings, if that’ll help; this will definitely be the most casual I’ve ever written. I think you’d like my Science & Scripture piece a lot. Remind me to text it to you. Maybe this will help me fall asleep. All I know is my heart hurts and it’s not even a full panic attack.

I think a lot of it is because I get too understimulated before I fall asleep or my body is scared to fall asleep for a number of reasons (primitive, spiritual, introspective). There’s a list of reasons for all three of these; maybe the primitive is the easiest to tackle for now since the adrenaline is wearing off.  I was born premature, 24 week, pound and a half baby. They had to do caffeine, blood, and ventilators to the point there’s scarring on my lungs that triggers my bronchial asthma. I was in the hospital for 101 days and came home on a breathing machine because I would forget to breathe. This was seen in small ways throughout my life. I would forget to breathe during dance performances; I don’t breathe going up stairs. It makes me wonder if my body is just concentrating on breathing to the point it doesn’t want to sleep.

But that doesn’t account for a number of things. It’s deductive in the sense that I’ve always disliked. It doesn’t account for the productivity addiction, or the compulsions, or that voice in my head that knows if I could see myself from the outside I would hate myself. It doesn’t account for my accomplishments not being mine, getting lucky in what I do by being at the right place at the right time. Hell, I’m not supposed to be alive in the first place if it weren’t for the time I was born with modern medicine. And then there’s the guilt. How can someone feel so guilty for simply existing? I don’t want to be dead by any means but why…

I know my purpose. I know my potential and I can’t stand that I can’t live up to it. Other people know their purpose and go and do it. I’ve lost my sense of identity once trying to do everything I could; it didn’t work. Those weren’t limits, those were restraints. And if I could get around them, maybe I’d finally reach my potential. I’m stubborn. The only reason I lived is because I’m stubborn. The only reason I am still alive is because I’m stubborn. I’m alive so what do I do now? Maybe hating myself gives me more motivation in a way, to become someone or something I don’t hate. Someone I can look at in a mirror and not have to worry about. I forgot I have a piece on that too. Here:

“Another night of staring at my own reflection. Why do I always come here? What even am I anymore? This mortal shell of mine seems to trap me. These dark bags only emphasize my melancholy eye contact. I try to reach out to myself but only feel the distant chill of this wretched surface; if only I could destroy its mocking gleam that judges me so. My efforts would be futile. When I walk out of this bathroom I could avoid my reflection, but I must face my own existence. These abhorrent conceptualizations must occur from within my own psyche, yet what does it mean to truly be mortal? This cursed mirror offers no clarification. I will nevertheless contemplate on my pitiful state: how can it be true I am no more than a spec much like the abomination of condensed sand I stare into? My heavy sigh only fogs the mirror and my thoughts further. Perhaps reflecting on memories rather than my empty husk will heal these reckless emotions.

As my conscience molds to my comprehension of this world, I am introspecting to discover who I truly am unto this earth while that same conscience no longer dictates my preconceptions miniscule. Among man I am just another cog within their own creations yet what I truly am can be defined by my beliefs. Improvement is what means to be human, and steadfast will I travel among the planes of reflectivity to reconstruct my identity. Though I may be perceived as this outwardly form, I am distinct by design. The miry fog releases its toll on my thoughts as I snap back into my own reality. I no longer feel numb to the stool I am perched on and gaze into the eyes of one I knew long before my melancholy state. I have never forgotten yet how can I begin to rebuild what I have lost?  Lightheaded, I rise from my perch. The fire within rekindles as I turn the worn door handle and step into the land of opportunity before me.”

I’m not afraid of death, never have been. I’m not afraid of life, or nothingness, or myself. I’m afraid of living my life as if it was never mine to live, of wasting it as if I’ve never lived at all. I need something to keep me grounded and believe in who I am. I’ve tried everything I know how and I still feel numb.

I think that joker was from years ago, before I was diagnosed with anything. Have a field day with that one. This might be my solution to express my frustrations for a bit until I can cast them down. Hope you are doing well, man. I’m working on doing better; I promised myself I would and this is so much progress in such a short time. Thanks for always listening.

~TBA