At the start of the year, my plan was to “salvage” all that I lost in 2018.
In 2018, I lost love. I was meant to salvage what was left of me after a breakup in April 2018 that left me miserable and scraping for pieces of myself off the floor. I didn’t know how one could feel so heavy after losing something that one thought was a burden. It felt like I was dredging a sea of all the could-have-beens. Truth is, I was looking to salvage the relationship itself.
I developed a routine that left me no time to think or feel sorry for myself any longer. I buried myself in work and my academics.
By March, I was done with school and I already knew I would graduate with a distinction. Things could have remained that way. I was happy and I felt accomplished. I was doing okay, and when he reached out to me again, I felt even better. It was like a grand sign (“we are meant to be”). That’s the only explanation, right? Everything was alright with the world again. Even without the intimacy of romantic relationships, we were great friends to each other. I missed the friendship so much that it wasn’t hard to fall back to the routine that accommodated him again as my partner, my friend, my confidant – my everything.
It was so perfect I didn’t want to distort it with any questions like – What are we doing now? What difference is this new thing going to make? Have we come to terms with what resulted in 2018? What now?
I was repressing. It only mattered that what we were doing was “Love.” Nothing truer – and it was better than before.
Repression was me holding down a button that opens a portal to all my fears – abandonment, rejection, loss, failure. I didn’t want to open anything ugly that would ruin what is perfect. I was very mindful of triggers.
Writing used to be my coping mechanism. In a bid to write more this year, I started a writing exercise where I chose a random word to write about within a number of days. When I told my “BFF” about it, he hopped on. It was easy to write to him as my only audience. It was so easy to be honest with him.
So, through writing, I was letting go of that button more and more… and we were finding new depth to ourselves and the relationship. This was our 7th year. Our compatibility was the stuff of fairytales. Was. Friendships are meant to be permanent…or so I thought.
After a good seven years, brethren, it ended in tears. LOL.
I hit rock bottom. I started researching suicide because I didn’t want to exhibit any signs that I was suicidal. LOL. I am now armed with so much information about how to not act suicidal.
When I went into the deep depression, I spent more time trying to not act depressed. I started tweeting a lot, about everything else than the truth of “What is happening.” It is a full-time job trying to be happy when you are not. I soon became exhausted.
I didn’t want to talk to my friends about it because it was embarrassing – reconciling again and recovering from something I had endured before. I was the real joker to think it would be alright again. I didn’t want to exhaust my friends with this same old story. I couldn’t believe I was going through the same thing again.
I travelled on a vacation. However, throughout the duration of the holiday, I was putting a lot of effort into convincing myself I was fine, but I was not fine. I was just repressing. The holiday ended and I cried the whole time I was coming back home, throughout the flight and the transit. I just wasn’t ready to come back to my miserable life. We were not talking anymore by then. Messages and calls were not replied. The classic Casper. LOL.
Everything became a lesson in failure. I didn’t get admitted into any of the four fellowships I applied to. I couldn’t make myself write anything. My routine was in shambles. I put myself down even more. I was not deserving of friendship and any kind of wins. I was banking on at least one “yes” to make me feel like I was worth it but with the polite rejection mails, and some that weren’t even polite enough to send any rejection mails… I failed.
What’s this thing about heartbreak that makes me so incapacitated? It is losing that friendship. I was going through some of the worst days of my life and I couldn’t talk about it with my friend because he doesn’t care about me anymore.
I attempted suicide twice within a period of two weeks in November. The first time, I promised myself if I didn’t die, I’d pull myself together. I was still deeply sad after it. Even worse, because I knew for sure I didn’t want to attempt this life thing again. I hated waking up and thinking “what now?” So, I tried again. I’ve been waiting to die since then.
But while I wait, I have to say “we move” under my breath. Over and over again. Because the world demands this of me… to achieve greater heights while I’m here and to show up for people. I’m torn between “there is so much more that life has to offer” and the fact that everything won’t matter when I do not exist any longer. Everything is vanity in the end.
Loss, Abandonment, Rejection, Failure – these are my realities and I have to come to terms with them come 2020.
I say this for the benefit of the positive vibes that is mandated of me – we move.
My friends and family want to know what grand plans I have for the coming year, but I have barely thought about it. I casually talk about meeting a reading goal for the year, going to the gym, writing more seriously and travelling. These tips that I borrow from the handbooks of my friends (and twitter) who seem to have hacked life and wellbeing to an extent.
The goals are mundane, like my existence. I would want more than anything to wake up and find that I had lost all my memory of 2019 or wake up and not feel any kind of pain. I am so tired of how I have to pretend to be okay when he appears on my timeline and panic clutches my chest, or in conversations with my friends whom I haven’t told what has happened.
I drag through my days, punctuating it with laughter where I need to but mostly silence. I have to exist, even if what I’m really doing is waiting to die.
Mama, don’t let go. Please