Trigger warning: Mentions of self harm and suicide
It’s been a year since I moved to Mumbai. Worst of all, I have been interning for over a year now. The longest-standing one in my studio all the while having the inner awareness and knowledge that I’m not cut out for this. Every day is a battle to believe that I’m worth it against all odds. But When push comes to shove, I’m left stripped of all that I am.
In those moments I open Instagram. It’s funny how Instagram makes you feel like you have a voice by suggesting and recommending everything that seems relatable. You feel not alone but that’s far from the truth as we continue to scroll, to doom scroll, desperately trying to voice out everything trapped inside of our mostly horizontal bodies through the reels of another.
Today is a Monday. Soon I would say it was a Monday. And that’s how I can say a year has passed. I should drink more water.
Are we trying to drown ourselves within ourselves?
The more I drink water I realize my mortality. But the same is what I feel when my mouth is dry of dehydration and I can sense the thirst pangs in my throat, shooting tight grasps inside of my chest, leaving my entire body tingling. This should ideally indicate a red-colored bodily warning but I wonder if the tingling is more like a mechanism to giggle.
“Give me a smile shruti, you know you are going down anyway” — says my body
I have been working from home for the past month now. I am fairly productive but those hours vary from day to day. I’m fit, I look quite fit. I’m healthy, I look quite healthy. I’m friendly, I look quite friendly. There’s a constant back and forth between the two but at least I don’t have to deal with more stimulation from the outside as i deal with looking normal, I am normal.
I want to write, I say. But honestly, I think it’s me trying to find newer ways to express my pathetic condition. A silent yell into the void
Which leaves me wondering, being in the design field, what exactly is my voice? if not for expressing my sorrow in unique ways?
And then I remember the concept of client work — it’s there for a reason
I have been struggling with my moods for over a year now. Sometimes I feel that the past year has just been the longest day of my life and other times, I play out my year, every single day. That can only be exhausting.
Some would say it’s human. Some would say that is no way of living life as a 24-year-old. I binge-watch chick flicks like ‘The Bold Type’ and think to myself, Maybe I should just be surrounded by more women.
Where are these women? Why do I feel like writing when I’m in the trenches? Do I feel heard by myself, let alone by anyone?
Is my ‘work from home’ a smokescreen to my inner need to suffocate myself within the confines of my thoughts and anti-thoughts?
I am not the only one and then I am the only one
How can I expect my boyfriend to hear me have a panic attack in the middle of the day, during his work hours purely because I couldn’t stand the fact that he found it impractical for me to fly over to his place because of financial issues? Very logical, and very accurate. All of that somehow put me in a metal cage. I could only hear myself bang my head through this perceived sense of rejection. I cried for 4 hours after.
This wasn’t the first time. Situations have been different but comes down to me having multiple panic attacks.
He is the most caring person I know. He is also a human dealing with his humanity. But I could not help but search
“What is wrong with me?”
And there begins my journey of self-diagnosing. the crux of this story isn’t unique but feels solution-oriented at the least. Seems logical. Seems practical. A metal box again that leaves me rotating in circles if and when I’m not banging my head
I resorted to cutting myself a few months ago.
Self-harm, not so much suicidal in the attempt except I feel like I am getting transparent daily. I’m already invisible to myself. Death isn’t something I’m scared of. It’s that even death isn’t going to save me from my loneliness.
I’m tired of reading, watching listening, and bonding over shared stories through the net and in real life. The relatability is thoughtful and I’m sure it saved plenty but for me, it’s nothing more than a warm hand with a cold hug. Because it only feels like quicksand. A slow embrace of a descent whose solace is only that it doesn’t have to happen alone.
By now, the readers might have made their own opinions of me. Some know me better than the rest. So it’s good for me to say that it’s not all like this. I’m fairly active. I do get occasionally excited by products being sold to me advertisements — (as if that is the metric to happiness these days), and I meditate (I follow the inner engineering program by Sadhguru — an article for another time because that has deeply helped me) and lastly, I enjoy physical pain
no wonder I cut myself when my legs couldn’t run more. I used to love running.
I’m going to Spain soon. The excitement of which is much like mosquitos biting me at intervals. It’s making me pale with feelings of “I don’t deserve this” but the itching is satisfying. Like I’m doing something about it like I’m cranking up my system to feel something more towards humility.
I know that I’m grateful to my parents but then why am I finding it hard to be happy, why am I so far from them
I think of going home and all I can envision are possible nights in the future wherein I will have to cry in secret. Moan in the most muffled and tuned-out screams into pillows that I have used since I was 15. I don’t want them to know their daughter isn’t happy.
They are the loveliest people I know and it would tear me apart to have them read this article. Tears me apart to write this honestly
That is the only thing that keeps me from wondering if anything is wrong with me. but there is.
(Instagram tells me)
It liberates me because I have found a community of people suffering from PMDD but it keeps me from, well not suffering. I know it takes a lot more than human support to come out of our drawbacks or illnesses. But it has reached the tipping point of helplessness for me.
I have been working on an animated film for the last year as part of my internship at a very credited visual communication studio.
The pursuit of pursuing things that aren’t in my skillset yet is digestible but in today’s world, the slowness of my attempts hurts more. Because I’m so quickly dispensable for not being quick to my feet, for being so slow in learning anything. Everything is so fast. What echoes in my brain to this day is being called slow from a time I don’t remember.
I must be on the narcissism spectrum says YouTube.
I yell so I must have a fight trauma response.
Now what.
I feel like that one odd animal who has gotten crushed, out of the blue, by a 40-foot-long connected tempo traveler on the highways of America, on a cold cold night.
India couldn’t have that big a tempo traveler but there are 1.4 billion of us, running over ourselves every day, feeling the guilt of not loving people more. But it’s acceptable to say “I hate myself”.
Another attempt at wording pain. This only gets more cliche.