Perfectly Candid

 TW: Life

All this pain around me, it saddens me.
Why is nobody happy?

Why is it always little transitory moments of peace and not a wide smile plastered on every face, always?

I write for validation.

But today, I pick this pen and write because I see no other means out of this internal hell I am in. I am not happy either by does that even need to be said?

Bound by shackles that tear through the very fabric of life, I see no peace, only an eternal struggle against everything we consider familiar.

I am crying as I write this. I don’t cry often, and these days, even when I do, it is a forced coercion of tears, an outward force, instead of something that occurs spontaneously as it once used to. I’ve never been good at crying.

I write this because I won’t be able to express any of these feelings to anyone who would care enough and knows how to deal with whatever I’m going through, anytime soon.
I don’t journal but today, this feels more journal-y than anything I’ve ever written in those dated pages of leather-bound diaries.

In this chaotic reality, there isn’t a shimmer of unhindered motion, or even rest for that matter. Everything that exists is in a state of discomfort.
For some, it is vicarious, while for others, their existence itself feels like needles pricking into every atom of their worldly manifestation.
And like most people, I am both of them-
It hurts me what the world is and what it stands for and what it is certainly doomed to be. And it pains me to exist in this skin, to be myself anymore.

I am not the mildly happy early-teen I was a couple years ago, at least as far as I can tell. Every passing year has progressively made my life worse, with slight slumps in the degradation, just mere moderations that last for a day or two. I feel and have been told by friends around me who know more of the world that I might have some mental health issues. Reading up on them, I am positive I do. However, as a minor entity, it is impossible for me to be diagnosed with them, which makes me wonder how long have minor mental health conditions existed for?
Did emperors in the medieval era suffer from depression?
I’m pretty sure the soldiers suffered from PTSD, but let us ponder about the minor ones here.

Now I think of what I want to do with what I’m writing right now. I feel that I should publish this entirely unedited as the only candid and tormented version of Himanshu that exists on the internet.
Then I’m compelled to ask myself what people who don’t know me at all personally will make out of it, if they will get creeped out by all this darkness dammed inside me. I question the very need of having this out in the open instead of just sending it to that one person who is actually going to take the effort to read this.
But I finally decide to use my blog page for the purpose it exists for- honest thoughts. And it is by this time that I once again realize that nobody is going to read this, and that I’ve relapsed into overthinking and spiraling and perhaps I should drop the pen and try reading a book instead.

But,
I wish to finish what I started.
I feel calmer now.

Over the past two days, I’ve felt a lot of negative emotions, most of the time:
I’ve felt nervous, scared (of consequences), irritated, unworthy, unloved, incapable, useless (to a certain extent), grandly pissed off, beating-the-shit-out-of-someone pissed off, unwanted, taken for granted, unfairly compared, jealous, disregarded, shamed, unfairly guilted and left out.

But I’ve had little moments of happiness, of laughter. Moments, when I felt, included and sometimes superior too. Moments when I’ve been pleasantly surprised, moments when people appreciated me (though in much less quantity than I deserved and by much fewer people), moments of escape from the life that I’ve been living every day for aeons. And maybe that is something worth not dying for, but I wish for those moments in greater quantities.

Fin.
:)