I was talking to a friend recently, mostly about how I was feeling, and they said that I’ve survived up til now.
Have I really?
Is this what you call “surviving”? If you call having to put a mask and force a smile, losing my appetite and being tired all the time “surviving”, then yeah, I’ve survived.
I’ve survived for 18 years and counting.
But would I call myself a survivor? No, I definitely would not. Let me explain.
Yes, I’m alive. I’ve had suicidal thoughts in the past but I’ve never acted on them. I don’t believe that death is the answer to obstacles in life. But I’m drowning. I’m drowning in my own thoughts and emotions. I’m barely able to keep afloat.
I push away everything I feel and plaster a smile, hoping that, by ignoring it, it will go away. But when nighttime falls and everything gets a little quiter, everything comes back and I lie in bed, wide awake, unable to quieten my racing thoughts.
What am I supposed to do?
I live each day robotically: waking up, brushing my teeth, eating, doing whatever is asked of me, go back to sleep, repeat. What else is there to do? What can I do?
How do I “survive” when I can barely find the motivation to do what makes me happy? I don’t even know what does anymore.
I know I shouldn’t be complaining. Objectively, I have a good life. I’m living comfortably, I get to study what I want, I have good friends who care about me, I get to live my dream, to a certain extent, on Wattpad and Radish and with Polyethnic Publishing. Yes, they make me happy, but I don’t feel what I used to when I write anymore.
I don’t get the thrill that I used to from writing. Everything is just… bland. Everything I do feels bland, no matter how much I try.
If this is what you call surviving, then yes, I’ve survived.
But is this really?