resignation

 People always say that they fought for me, but never enough to matter. 

It is such a challenge to keep a straight face when people say that what happens to me is unfair – when they tell me I didn’t/don’t deserve it. The answer I give is always the same: “what’s done is done”. What else can I say? The word “sorry”… the phrases “I didn’t mean to-” / “sorry for the trouble”… - they have no effect on me, anymore. When will people learn not to get carried away and inflict hurt onto others? 

The truth? The truth is it’s I who must live with the hurt of it all. Apologies and late onset remorse from others mean nothing to me. I’m not after vindication. What matters to me is that I close chapters – that I scratch all of it from my memory. My heart is so desensitized, now, that the notion of attachment is something I’ve detached from. All it took was one last disappointment before the start of autumn to let it finally dawn on me: some people (me) are not meant for love. All I’m good for is being a muse. Temporary. I cannot say that this doesn’t affect the fiber of my being painfully but, c’est la vie. There is a certain relief in accepting that I’m alone.

The truth? I resigned mentally months ago. Not from just my job – but from everything else: of finding love, of making something of myself. I’ve lost touch with myself. But did I ever know who I was? I have always followed paths other people expected of me.

  

The truth? It’s my mental health. I’m living with this disease alone. And that’s the way it must be. No one understands it. No one really wants to. I think people are just scared of the implications. Simply reading the descriptions sends shivers down my spine – “manic” / “hysteria” / “periods of highs, followed by severe lows”. No one really understands mental illness: it’s not tangible. It’s common that I hear: “You, really? Nah, you don’t seem like the type to be that way.” In fact, I’m terrified of marriage. I’m terrified of having children. All of this; it’s hereditary. I don’t want this to spill over on other people. 

When I’m on the tram, it’s quite often that a drug addict wanders in – coked out of their mind; lost in time. I wonder, sometimes, what led these people to this – who were they before all of this? Did they have dreams? Was it mental illness – did they take to drugs to numb the painful existence of it all? If yes, would I end up like that, eventually? 

Someone asked me today: “are you leaving because of the opportunity you were given or because you’re running away because things got difficult?” I need people to stop asking me if I’m running away. I need people to stop wondering about me. I made my decision. Isn’t it a sign that every time I’m back home, I dread the day I need to catch my flight back here? Isn’t it a sign that I’m at my most peaceful home, doing nothing, wrapped up in a blanket in my old childhood bedroom? Isn’t it a sign that I look outside my window sometimes, expecting to see the sea or some form of azure hue in the skyline? 

Some of the people back home are stuck in their ways – yes – antiquated, conservative, and purely ignorant. They don’t like to think or question. Mostly, this is what I’m scared of going back to. I feel like I’ve grown up so much and saw many different perspectives here. I was forced to integrate with cultures I normally would not try to integrate with back home. It broadened my horizons. 

Whatever, I guess? It’s done. I’m tired of thinking about the future: planning things out. I’m not disciplined enough to follow routine. That much about myself, I know. Extensive planning never resulted in anything productive. My drive for life is gone. Maybe, it will reinvigorate itself somehow.