I am going to publish this very personal post. I am probably going to regret it. Or by the time I am done I will talk myself out of clicking that “publish” button. I don’t know. I do not plan for it to be perfect so it will probably have typos and lack correlation but five minutes spent correcting it will probably lead to me deleting it.
So, I have been going to this therapist, I don’t know, hoping he’ll fix me or something. Hoping that whatever it is that I feel that I fail to explain, he’ll make it go away. I was devastated when he told me that that was not his job. His job was not to make the constant feeling of inadequacy, of prolonged sadness (I still avoid saying depression to this day, I don’t know why) go away.
I was hoping he’d make me stop failing everyone around me. I was really banking on him being able to bring back a Mbali that could sleep with dry pillows and smiles. The disappointment in both his face and mine, as he told me only I will be able to do that. He can only guide me through that journey.
Even at that, I am still failing, hence articles written at 2am because sleep is for normal people, for happy people. Okay maybe that’s not true. Because sometimes I cannot get out of bed because getting up means facing the world and sometimes I am not ready for that type of responsibility. I am not ready to play happy people and laugh and post jokes on Facebook like nothing’s wrong. Ah I’m derailing but whatever.
Let me tell you a story.
So this one time I was sitting in the lounge with my aunt. As usual, sharing jokes and funny videos (yes, my aunt is cool when you don’t get on her wrong side). Then a random thought hit me: “Till when are you going to put up this facade of a happy, put together person?” it presented itself.
The realization that I do not have a space where I can do really ugly loud cries while pouring my heart out to someone hit me like a ton of bricks. I am always putting up a happy face, to EVERYONE (well until recently).
When it hit me, I started doing the ugly cry, out of the blue. The last time my aunt had probably saw me cry was when I was a child and somebody in the house had spanked me for something. She had never experienced the adult me being emotional.
That’s why I do not blame her for walking out on me without a word. She avoided me until I stopped and came back. I showed her a meme on Facebook. We laughed. Life was back to normal. We never spoke of it again.
Why I am telling you this story I have forgotten but I am trying to keep typing so I do not talk myself out of at least writing out my feelings, regardless of whether I press the publish button or not when I feel I have exhausted the contents of my brain and heart.
Okay let’s talk about lighter stuff.
Let me tell you about myself.
I love food. Yeah that’s about it. I’m joking. I find comfort in food. Thank God for my fast metabolism. I also like nice music. I always thought I was an introvert. I just had low self-esteem and therefore wanted to keep myself out of people’s eyes as best as I could. Until I grew older and started being comfortable in my own skin. Then I discovered I am more of an ambivert. An introverted extrovert, if there’s such.
Okay. Let’s leave it here. Looks like I haven’t talked myself out of publishing this. It could be taken down though before the end of the day.
That felt really good.