I am a walking bag exploding with potential. Although my life has never been peaceful, there's was always hope in me that somehow I'll overcome the third-world struggles me and others before me have crawled through. But, I fear it. I fear joining the rat race. I fear becoming a corporate slave. I fear losing a big part of myself to a soulless company. I am a walking bag of potential zippered in fear.
I'm unemployed, failed to finish my degree, a twenty-something still relying from his parent abroad. The mere fact of existing is already too difficult. But to hear the news of being halted from monetary support is psychosis-inducing. I spent the better part of my twenties jumping from psychiatrist to psychiatrist, medication to self-medication, and back again. Although progress is seen, apparently not fast enough. And just two weeks ago, after that news broke, it dawned on me that my parent will never really see me. My bags dark from not sleeping. My eyes yellowish-red in exhaustion. My mind ringing with constant thoughts. Too much, to explain.
I think it's simple really, she thinks that all of this is a mind-over-matter thing. That sleepless nights can be cured by drinking a hot water seeped in a garlic clove an hour before bed. That really, the solution for my immobility was tough love and a reality check. That by making it harder for me, somehow I'll push through it all and show my potential. Don't mind all the tragedies and diagnoses to get here. Somehow, even with her business-casual words, I sense that she thinks I'm just making this all up or being hyperbolic to get a free ride through life.
Not that it's even been an easy ride. And I hate doing this, trying to get strangers and others to believe in me. To convince them I am in the right, or at the very least justified. From my drug addicted absentee father to an almost equally absent mother (physically and emotionally). To a drunkard step-dad that threw my dirty clothes at me while i was sleeping. Fun fact, those were not the only things he hurled, as he also threw in that I was "special" among other things. To a grandmother that clings to the past and really wanted a caretaker and a maid, not a grandson. I used to tell my friends that I left home due to my step-father but really I just moved in to the house in front, my grandmother's. Turns out, there might be a reason why my mother is the why she is, and it's certain it's due to the apple feeding from the tree. But what's my excuse after moving back to the house and living on my own and still failing to make something of myself? I don't know, maybe I do know. Maybe all that battery acid fertilizer has caught up to me, maybe I really am like my absentee father, addicted to pleasure and pleasure only. Or maybe right now I'm just hungry and tired. And I hate this, for having to tell you and explain to you and convince you what I've been through. Opening myself up for comfort or criticism. What is a mere forum post to a lifetime of embodiment and thoughts. How could a string of seven-hundred strewn on words ever capture the chaos and complexity of not only myself but of those that moved around me. And yet, no one here asked me to explain, to a panel. Maybe I'm just over-complicating all of these, for the sake of over-complication for the sake of justification for the sake of immobilization. And even with that, I'm still paralyzed to the bone with the thought of marching forward, when all I've ever experienced was dehydration and malnutrition.
I just wanna rest.
When I think about dying most days, I get disappointed over the hypotheticals of that what-if grandeur life. Will I ever get out of my ego? Or is this one of those things that really has no answer, and, we're just walking through that decision hunch-backed with all that we'll leave behind.
I'm unemployed, failed to finish my degree, a twenty-something still relying from his parent abroad. The mere fact of existing is already too difficult. But to hear the news of being halted from monetary support is psychosis-inducing. I spent the better part of my twenties jumping from psychiatrist to psychiatrist, medication to self-medication, and back again. Although progress is seen, apparently not fast enough. And just two weeks ago, after that news broke, it dawned on me that my parent will never really see me. My bags dark from not sleeping. My eyes yellowish-red in exhaustion. My mind ringing with constant thoughts. Too much, to explain.
I think it's simple really, she thinks that all of this is a mind-over-matter thing. That sleepless nights can be cured by drinking a hot water seeped in a garlic clove an hour before bed. That really, the solution for my immobility was tough love and a reality check. That by making it harder for me, somehow I'll push through it all and show my potential. Don't mind all the tragedies and diagnoses to get here. Somehow, even with her business-casual words, I sense that she thinks I'm just making this all up or being hyperbolic to get a free ride through life.
Not that it's even been an easy ride. And I hate doing this, trying to get strangers and others to believe in me. To convince them I am in the right, or at the very least justified. From my drug addicted absentee father to an almost equally absent mother (physically and emotionally). To a drunkard step-dad that threw my dirty clothes at me while i was sleeping. Fun fact, those were not the only things he hurled, as he also threw in that I was "special" among other things. To a grandmother that clings to the past and really wanted a caretaker and a maid, not a grandson. I used to tell my friends that I left home due to my step-father but really I just moved in to the house in front, my grandmother's. Turns out, there might be a reason why my mother is the why she is, and it's certain it's due to the apple feeding from the tree. But what's my excuse after moving back to the house and living on my own and still failing to make something of myself? I don't know, maybe I do know. Maybe all that battery acid fertilizer has caught up to me, maybe I really am like my absentee father, addicted to pleasure and pleasure only. Or maybe right now I'm just hungry and tired. And I hate this, for having to tell you and explain to you and convince you what I've been through. Opening myself up for comfort or criticism. What is a mere forum post to a lifetime of embodiment and thoughts. How could a string of seven-hundred strewn on words ever capture the chaos and complexity of not only myself but of those that moved around me. And yet, no one here asked me to explain, to a panel. Maybe I'm just over-complicating all of these, for the sake of over-complication for the sake of justification for the sake of immobilization. And even with that, I'm still paralyzed to the bone with the thought of marching forward, when all I've ever experienced was dehydration and malnutrition.
I just wanna rest.
When I think about dying most days, I get disappointed over the hypotheticals of that what-if grandeur life. Will I ever get out of my ego? Or is this one of those things that really has no answer, and, we're just walking through that decision hunch-backed with all that we'll leave behind.
