Be Kind

My home has become a harbour where people dock down for a few hours of light conversation, tea and peace of mind. It has also become a place where people bare their souls... and I have been mindful of the energy that would create within my home. 
This past week alone I have had my loved ones and a few new friends take me into their confidence about their trials and darkest demons. What I learned left me empathetic for some and stricken with horror for others. Followed by restless nights with my own demons surfacing for hours on end. 

And so I ask myself if what i do is healthy for me, being the confidante of so many severed souls while fighting my own battles. And the answer i arrived at is, yes.

I don't do this because I have a saviour complex. Nor do I believe I have a solution for their problems. I do it simply to offer some relief to those who struggle. Talking it out helps sometimes. I realised that after I started therapy. The importance of expressing myself. 

What I have noticed is that all of them have one thing in common. They forget to be kind to themselves. They forget that they are only human, and therefore prone to mistakes. And they are incapable of forgiving themselves. Guilt is the ultimate burden to bear. I understand. Believe me. I do. But then, we live, we learn, don’t we? We are only human.

As for those who subconsciously blame themselves for what happened to them; things that were beyond your control or needed to be done, you didn’t invite the trauma into your life. Sometimes terrible things happen. Things that are beyond your control. So you bleed and you grieve. But holding onto that trauma will not help. Seek the proper treatment for what’s ailing you.  

Talking to a friend might provide some relief but it is only temporary. Communicate with a Psychiatrist, get a diagnosis and get started on your treatment. Be it pills or therapy or both. Only you know about your hysteria, sleep paralysis, paranoia, inability to control your emotions and the extent of it all. Try talking to Dr. Arif or Dr. Shanooha at IGMH (for appointments, call 3335245) and get a diagnosis.

I texted my former Therapist today, after a long time. As you know, she lives abroad now. I showed her photos of my place and she was so happy for me. When I thanked for helping me get here, she said I did it by myself and that she was happy that she was there at some point to help me. This woman doesn’t know that she saved my life. Really has no idea. Haha. 

Anyway, I hope you muster up the courage and strength to help yourself. And soon. And I hope you remember to be kind to yourself. Cheers. 

Reader's Block

2011 was the worst year of my life. The years after that fade into one another, with me clinging desperately on to the sliver of sanity I possessed. Along with my dilapidating memory and inconsolable emotions, came the inability to do one of the most fundamental things that make me who I am. I stopped reading.
Not for lack of trying, though. Because I tried. So many times, I tried. I would force myself to read a page every day but I couldn't discipline myself to actually follow through. My mind refused to comprehend the words and my eyes refused to linger long enough on the page to acknowledge what I was trying to read.

For as long as I can remember, I've had my nose buried in books. I loved the time I got to spend in our school libraries. My fascination with reading began with Enid Blyton books and I would spend hours with my head bent over her work, marveling at the lives the children lived. And I lived in them as well. I lived in many worlds. 

My former Therapist slowly urged me to force myself to begin reading again. Over the past 8 years I don't think I've read more than 50 books. Or 40. Or even 30. I didn't keep count. It was too depressing. So last year I was able to actually hold a book and concentrate on it long enough to read a few pages at a time. I was delighted. It made me remember who I was. And how much I love being lost in tales. 

The thing about CPTSD and Depression is that it makes you lose interest in the things that you love the most. It broke my heart to be that disengaged to literature. I forgot myself. 

I believe that I have regained my interest in pursuing tales again. It is gradual and inconsistent and it takes a while for me to read a book that I would've finished in one sitting before I found myself with this block obstructing my mind. I suppose a lot of you can relate. 

By treating my conditions, I am able to go back to being a version of who I used to be. Granted, it is a raw, jaded and unstable version but that version can read and that is saying a lot. My bookshelf is my pride and my treasure. 

Without books, I wouldn't have this imagination nor the beautiful dreams that occasionally grace my broken mind. I wouldn't be me without those worlds I had journeyed into. 

I hope this helps. 

Oblivion

I walk under the shade of trees, stepping on scatters of sunshine on the floor. Marble glistens around me and leaves sway above me. Weeping branches of bright green and brown hang overhead, a sharp contrast against the luminous white building that looms over us pedestrians. Beautiful and intimidating at the same time.

I walk to the centre of the square and stare at the ambivalent sky above me. Today is neither warm nor cold. Like nature has taken a slow deep breath. I wonder what is ahead. A storm... or more days of sweat trickling down our backs? Probably the latter.

I seek refuge in the welcoming embrace of more trees reaching for the skies. The bench where I sit is empty and I settle down, taking a long deep breath. Even walking is a trial today. Every step I take is exhausting. Every breath, a chore.

I sit and wait for my mind to take it all in. Flowers, leaves, trees and grass. Things that usually bring a smile to my face. I am surrounded by so much beauty and yet all that is on my mind are these five cursed words.

"What is the fucking point?"