A confession.

When Madness Is in the Wings

There is something striking and alarming in the glaring resemblance (of what the author projects about her own experience) this has to my life. I've spent years living under intense paranoia; of being judged, being made the laughing stock, the unwitting victim on whom the world can wash its stains upon to quote Toni Morrison (The Bluest Eyes). I felt like Pecola, I felt inferior, I felt everything I did, said, was beyond reprieve. That I did not deserve the benediction I expected the world to spare me in presence of my imperfection.

Then I went to University. I felt the burden of loneliness crashing down on me; I lived away from my family and sometimes I would lock myself up in my room, surviving on cup noodles and cry myself to sleep at 5 a.m. in the morning. Everything else was relegated to the periphery. All that mattered were my imperfections, and all I did was to try and perfect them. I began to imitate people who've walked across the bridge between the rest of the world and the faint existence of my life. I perceived them to be perfect; I felt envious, I drowned in a pot of self pity and I could feel the end near, simmering by the edges. [eta: "Almost all absurdity of conduct arises from the imitation of those whom we cannot resemble." - Samuel Johnson; always remember this.] Waiting to erupt, until one day I'd realize I am not good enough for the world, and I'd want to, or at least try to end things. As Daniel Webster put it, "There is no refuge from confession but suicide; and suicide is confession." I wanted to confess that my life wasn't perfect; that perfection was the only source of happiness in my life; without it, life didn't matter.

Last year wasn't the proudest moment of my life. I have made decisions that I regret, and would do anything to take back, and start over. Relationships were broken, friends were let go, and all I did was withdraw from the face of the world because I felt like no one understood me. Every raised intonation drove my inferiority complex to the overdrive, every disappointed stare crushed the valves around my heart like you'd do to a stress ball and nothing, absolutely nothing took shape of optimism in my life. I'm not making excuses; I am confessing.

Today I feel brave enough, happy enough, and grateful enough to confess how derailed I was last year. I used to think if you don't drink excessively, smoke or do drugs, you are okay. You are a good kid, you can do no wrong. It took me a while to realize there are other ways that the human psyche can get the better of you. When you afford your life to lose all direction, when you topple out of balance, when you do not reach out and ask for help, when it becomes too much for you to handle on your own...so please dear reader, if any, reach out. Ask for help. A dented pride is a small sacrifice compared to rediscovering your capacity to feel happy. To enjoy the world for all its worth so that when it's time to go, you are able to sigh in peace, reflect and think, "Well I've had a good one. Time to move on."

I learned this the hard way. I hope you take the easy route.

(I don't believe in anti-depressants. Zolofts and prozacs are temporary; the real solution lies within. The challenge is to (re)discover your capacity to feel the good emotions and filter out the negative ones; to realize that you are not alone, that the world doesn't hate you, doesn't judge you, and in fact you are free to be whatever you want to be. Therein lies true happiness. That is all you and I can hope to achieve. One day.)