Have you ever listened to a piece of music that takes you back to a completely different point in your life? Back to a point where your innocence was still somewhat intact and the old beliefs, hopes and wishes that once kept you grounded come flooding back as a tsunami of sweetly saddening nostalgia? Back to a time where those infatuations you discovered as you came to terms with the world and what it held for you became everything you lived for?
There's only ever one song that does this for me: Sanctuary by Utada Hikaru. Those of you who happen to be budding fans of the Kingdom Hearts game series will know exactly what song I'm talking about, and you may even understand the feelings that I'm attempting to convey; a beautiful, melancholic reminisce. I'm usually quite good at wording how I feel, but words forever fail me when I try to describe this feeling. It was safe. The point in my life to which I refer was never one of complete joy, was never stable, nor was it one I could ever make complete sense of.
I lived in Amsterdam. I was 11. My family life was turbulent to say the least, my school life was... a slight from the norm, and I had a healthy social life. My family life- my private life- was- well, it just was. It was there. To explain: there was happiness there, but there was also fear. There was anger. There was bottled frustration corked with said fear. Anyway, you get the picture. When the bad erupted, I would hide in books or in games, specifically Kingdom Hearts. I became OBSESSED with the world (or "worlds") I escaped into, finding another purpose to my life than the real one I was reluctant to face. I found joy in the companionship I imagined I had with Sora, Donald and Goofy, and I further delved into fantasy as I read fan-factions that romanticised Sora's and Riku's relationship (the two main guys). I was wholly engrossed in a reality I could never truly be a part of, only observe and construct around my psyche to satisfy my every whim as a means to leave reality behind and pretend. I found a new home in a pretend world because I couldn't face the one I was living in.
So, as I sit here, listening to Sanctuary by Utada Hikaru, I look back on my younger self with those mixed emotions I struggle to describe. It's an almost joyful dread and pride. This was a time when I felt beat down and weighted, but I kept myself propped up by a fraction of hope for a life that wasn't real; I kept going to live another day in that world because it was the only world that mattered- it was the only world that was safe. It was my world where nothing could hurt me and everything was perfect, which brings me to where, I believe, the sadness comes from: I had perfection in my hands. A fraction of it, granted, but it was perfection. As I've grown older, there is less perfection to be observed and more fault to be found in the concept itself. I envy my old self for being able to carelessly escape into that alternate life while I am made to face my hardships and take control of this reality- the only way I will feel safe once more.
I realise I needed that escape when I needed it. I may wish for it now but it is not necessary, and it would be self-detrimental to slip back into that old world. I can't go back there, but I can look back on it with gratitude. I look back with thanks, as I know the boy I used to be still lives there, innocence in-hand as he eternally exists in place I was made to leave behind- in a place I let him be. He and I are two different people now; I left my childhood behind before I had to because it didn't feel fair for me to bring the child I was along with me. We parted with a sad smile, knowing I was doing best, knowing that somewhere, I would always exist in an eternal content.
I guess the purpose of this post is just to share. I felt like talking and this seemed like the best medium to use for uninterrupted, flowing thought. I have no advice, no guidance, no wise words or obscure analogies. I just wanted to write. I wanted to make sense of these feelings that I equally love and dread, and this seemed like the only way I have of reasoning such a myriad of emotion- which I have! At least to a degree anyway. I'll never truly understand it- nor do I really want to- but having attempted to understand, I feel better already.
As they say, "sometimes you have to look back in order to move forward". I just need to finish looking back.
Thanks for reading, guys.
Showing posts with label mental block. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mental block. Show all posts
Thursday, 13 October 2016
Friday, 15 July 2016
Regression
I really don't know what to write any more. I'm struggling again!
My brain seems to have lassoed itself to a fence post and started re-runs of old episodes on a nearby rock to keep me entertained; I've found myself regressing to old ways of thinking where I escape into stories and scenarios, living various lives through adventurous tracks of thought. I won't lie, these thoughts are much better than my usual sense of lacklustre and despondency, but they aren't real. My own head is forcing me back into a nursery room of colours, toys and teddies, beyond which lies a post-apocalyptic waste that's haunted by memories of once-was and of those oppressed- those hidden in caverns I dare explore for the sake of discovery and betterment of self. I enjoy the escape but despise the impending deposition, like a king to be overthrown for abstaining from the care of his kingdom. I need to face reality and care for my kingdom. Were I to care for a kingdom, would I allow foundations to crumble for fear of the work it takes to repair them? No. So why do I allow such things to happen to myself? Why do I willingly allow myself to draw back into the safety of a pretend world to avoid facing my issues? Especially considering my matching willingness to better myself.
Sometimes I fall to my thoughts and call myself weak because I see no other reason for my behaviour, but then I realise I am strong because I choose to face these problems in hopes of stamping them out. I don't actually live in that pretend world any more because I can't afford to; if I want to make it in this life, then I need to face it and make it my own, not hide away and lose myself as I have for many years before now. There are many kinds of closets, and this one is mine. Slowly but surely, I'm edging out toward the light on the other side of the room, and when I get there, I'll be waiting for those of you trying to escape, too.
My brain seems to have lassoed itself to a fence post and started re-runs of old episodes on a nearby rock to keep me entertained; I've found myself regressing to old ways of thinking where I escape into stories and scenarios, living various lives through adventurous tracks of thought. I won't lie, these thoughts are much better than my usual sense of lacklustre and despondency, but they aren't real. My own head is forcing me back into a nursery room of colours, toys and teddies, beyond which lies a post-apocalyptic waste that's haunted by memories of once-was and of those oppressed- those hidden in caverns I dare explore for the sake of discovery and betterment of self. I enjoy the escape but despise the impending deposition, like a king to be overthrown for abstaining from the care of his kingdom. I need to face reality and care for my kingdom. Were I to care for a kingdom, would I allow foundations to crumble for fear of the work it takes to repair them? No. So why do I allow such things to happen to myself? Why do I willingly allow myself to draw back into the safety of a pretend world to avoid facing my issues? Especially considering my matching willingness to better myself.
Sometimes I fall to my thoughts and call myself weak because I see no other reason for my behaviour, but then I realise I am strong because I choose to face these problems in hopes of stamping them out. I don't actually live in that pretend world any more because I can't afford to; if I want to make it in this life, then I need to face it and make it my own, not hide away and lose myself as I have for many years before now. There are many kinds of closets, and this one is mine. Slowly but surely, I'm edging out toward the light on the other side of the room, and when I get there, I'll be waiting for those of you trying to escape, too.
Wednesday, 15 June 2016
About a Fly
Ladies, Gentlemen, all those in-between and the none-at-alls,
There are times in which you'll have to hear me out on certain things because they'll, at first, seem bizarre or inane. This is one of those times. I'm going to be drawing comparisons you'll most likely find ridiculous, then again, you may also find them humorous... the ball is really in your court.
On my way home from work, not long after writing my first blog post in fact, I spotted a little greenfly on the inside of the tram window. There it was, right next to me, making futile efforts to pass a seemingly invisible wall to escape to its rightful place outside. Me being me, I began to feel sorry Frank (he has a name now), managing to draw some obscure sense of empathy for him. His battle resonated with me, feeling his frustration as he battered against a mysterious wall- not visible, but felt. I watched as Frank scaled his battlefield, climbing up, attempting to fly through, then being knocked back down to restart his endeavour once more. I watched as this process was repeated over, and over, and over, and over until he fell all the way down to the gap between the window and the ledge. This bothered me. Not only had he seemingly given up, stood leg-locked in a dark place, probably wondering how on Earth he would successfully encounter this issue in his lonely and condemned state, but now I had to somehow help him out of there so I could get him outside! He literally didn't move from that space for the rest of my journey. It was exactly as though he'd given up, something I wasn't going to allow to happen: don't worry, Frank, I thought, I'll help you when I get off the tram. Then I did! I quite literally saved a greenfly because I felt I was able to relate to his struggle (as well as my overbearing sense of respect for life, big or small, of course). Judge me as you will, but I'd have felt guilty for a long time had I not saved him!
If you weren't already able to notice the parallels between our friend, his wall, and mental illness, allow me to enlighten you: The fly is you, outside is your eventual goal, and the window is the mental block you put in place to stop yourself (I know we don't knowingly put them in place, but your brain is you, yada yada, you get the drift). In a fly, I saw determination, motivation, exasperation, then nothing. I saw self-defeatism. I saw loss of purpose. I saw myself. Throughout my years of internal struggle, I've battled against an unconquerable wall so erected by myself. It hadn't really occurred to me until recently, but only I know the weaknesses to this wall- only I can be the wooden horse, pregnant with an army to take down my enemy, probing it's walls to find the darkness to be vanquished inside. However, just like Frank, I couldn't do it alone. I needed an outsider to read my reports (that's you), a benevolent officer to hear of my reconnaissance on the enemy within (my trusted few) and, finally, the stability to carry out my mission (that's me). Do not go headstrong into this with the belief that you can go it alone; war is a time in which we should make friends, connections and enforce trusty support systems to enable success. A war is never fought unaided. Don't allow yourself to fall into a solitary, dark place, only to be scooped up by a sorry onlooker's monthly tram pass. Pick yourself up, cast away whatever thoughts that isolate you and ask for a friend; you'll be surprised by the response you get.
P.S. I realise many oppose the view that we are our illness, referring to my "yada yada" bracket. Many would say, "when you have a cold, you're not a cold!" which is true. But for something as complex as mental illness- something so hardwired into the workings of your brain, for all intents and purposes, is you. It affects your behaviours, your behaviours create your character. When we change these behaviours, we're changing ourselves. I find that accepting your mental illness as part of you enables you to fight it in a much more efficient manner because "nobody knows you better than you, right?" I found treating it as some form of viral invader put me at a distance from my illness, yet everyone knows the best way to work with something is the get up-close and personal. However, don't take this as fact, this is just my opinion.
There are times in which you'll have to hear me out on certain things because they'll, at first, seem bizarre or inane. This is one of those times. I'm going to be drawing comparisons you'll most likely find ridiculous, then again, you may also find them humorous... the ball is really in your court.
On my way home from work, not long after writing my first blog post in fact, I spotted a little greenfly on the inside of the tram window. There it was, right next to me, making futile efforts to pass a seemingly invisible wall to escape to its rightful place outside. Me being me, I began to feel sorry Frank (he has a name now), managing to draw some obscure sense of empathy for him. His battle resonated with me, feeling his frustration as he battered against a mysterious wall- not visible, but felt. I watched as Frank scaled his battlefield, climbing up, attempting to fly through, then being knocked back down to restart his endeavour once more. I watched as this process was repeated over, and over, and over, and over until he fell all the way down to the gap between the window and the ledge. This bothered me. Not only had he seemingly given up, stood leg-locked in a dark place, probably wondering how on Earth he would successfully encounter this issue in his lonely and condemned state, but now I had to somehow help him out of there so I could get him outside! He literally didn't move from that space for the rest of my journey. It was exactly as though he'd given up, something I wasn't going to allow to happen: don't worry, Frank, I thought, I'll help you when I get off the tram. Then I did! I quite literally saved a greenfly because I felt I was able to relate to his struggle (as well as my overbearing sense of respect for life, big or small, of course). Judge me as you will, but I'd have felt guilty for a long time had I not saved him!
If you weren't already able to notice the parallels between our friend, his wall, and mental illness, allow me to enlighten you: The fly is you, outside is your eventual goal, and the window is the mental block you put in place to stop yourself (I know we don't knowingly put them in place, but your brain is you, yada yada, you get the drift). In a fly, I saw determination, motivation, exasperation, then nothing. I saw self-defeatism. I saw loss of purpose. I saw myself. Throughout my years of internal struggle, I've battled against an unconquerable wall so erected by myself. It hadn't really occurred to me until recently, but only I know the weaknesses to this wall- only I can be the wooden horse, pregnant with an army to take down my enemy, probing it's walls to find the darkness to be vanquished inside. However, just like Frank, I couldn't do it alone. I needed an outsider to read my reports (that's you), a benevolent officer to hear of my reconnaissance on the enemy within (my trusted few) and, finally, the stability to carry out my mission (that's me). Do not go headstrong into this with the belief that you can go it alone; war is a time in which we should make friends, connections and enforce trusty support systems to enable success. A war is never fought unaided. Don't allow yourself to fall into a solitary, dark place, only to be scooped up by a sorry onlooker's monthly tram pass. Pick yourself up, cast away whatever thoughts that isolate you and ask for a friend; you'll be surprised by the response you get.
P.S. I realise many oppose the view that we are our illness, referring to my "yada yada" bracket. Many would say, "when you have a cold, you're not a cold!" which is true. But for something as complex as mental illness- something so hardwired into the workings of your brain, for all intents and purposes, is you. It affects your behaviours, your behaviours create your character. When we change these behaviours, we're changing ourselves. I find that accepting your mental illness as part of you enables you to fight it in a much more efficient manner because "nobody knows you better than you, right?" I found treating it as some form of viral invader put me at a distance from my illness, yet everyone knows the best way to work with something is the get up-close and personal. However, don't take this as fact, this is just my opinion.
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