Oct 2021
The problem with people like me, people with the desperate need to disappear in to things purely for survival reasons, people who must give every last fiber of their being to things that perhaps are not worth the self that they’re giving, is that it cannot be sustained; it’s just not pragmatic at all. But the weight you bear from looking at yourself, I’m not even speaking of the image in the mirror, but looking at yourself mentally is so overwhelming that you cannot stand to be in your own presence to a point where you have accepted that your “self” has been dished out so carelessly you barely carry fragments of it anymore
I read once in a book, not a favorite book but one I related to in the most un-relatable way (if that makes sense), about this mathematician Kurt Godel who was obsessed with the fear of being poisoned so he refused to eat anything his wife hadn’t cooked. When his wife was hospitalized, his fear was so debilitating that he chose to starve himself to death instead of tackling it. The protagonist of the book continues to explain that Kurt lived with those Demons for 71 years until they finally got him. Understanding your crazy or your spiral or that itch under your skirt that just won’t stop burning no matter how much you scratch it, doesn’t make it less of a problem or an easy fix. Its there, as real as a chronic illness that’s slowly decaying your body from the inside out, worse even because you cannot explain it away. You can’t make people understand why you don’t have your **** together anymore or why its harder to balance things anymore or why you can’t clean you room everyday, or get out of bed, or just be there with your friends talking and laughing without wanting to disappear back in to the comfort of your shell that isn’t even comfortable anymore.
Your whole existence becomes one giant cursive that you’ve been trying to master but always ends up having too many unnecessary curves and scratches, and becomes ugly instead of graceful like your mind and your thoughts and this whole ******* paragraph.
The problem with people like me is that we don’t know that we’re too much at times and too little when it counts and its exhausting being this- always.
I read once in a book, not a favorite book but one I related to in the most un-relatable way (if that makes sense), about this mathematician Kurt Godel who was obsessed with the fear of being poisoned so he refused to eat anything his wife hadn’t cooked. When his wife was hospitalized, his fear was so debilitating that he chose to starve himself to death instead of tackling it. The protagonist of the book continues to explain that Kurt lived with those Demons for 71 years until they finally got him. Understanding your crazy or your spiral or that itch under your skirt that just won’t stop burning no matter how much you scratch it, doesn’t make it less of a problem or an easy fix. Its there, as real as a chronic illness that’s slowly decaying your body from the inside out, worse even because you cannot explain it away. You can’t make people understand why you don’t have your **** together anymore or why its harder to balance things anymore or why you can’t clean you room everyday, or get out of bed, or just be there with your friends talking and laughing without wanting to disappear back in to the comfort of your shell that isn’t even comfortable anymore.
Your whole existence becomes one giant cursive that you’ve been trying to master but always ends up having too many unnecessary curves and scratches, and becomes ugly instead of graceful like your mind and your thoughts and this whole ******* paragraph.
The problem with people like me is that we don’t know that we’re too much at times and too little when it counts and its exhausting being this- always.
