Mentally, I’m Off
I’m distancing from reasonability
It’s been a little over a month since we received orders to stay home and safely tucked away from the unprecedented global health emergency that continues to have catastrophic effects on victims and their helpless loved ones.
In the days following the national mandate and the pertinent information about the deadliness of COVID-19, which had been initially downplayed by those who are tasked with the responsibility of protecting our very lives, there were episodes of depression manifested by fear of the unknown.
Eventually emotions leveled off with displays of hopefulness and some spells of sadness, evoked by the bleak news bulletins and the graphicness of social media.
For a minute there, I believed in my ability to redirect my restless energy towards productive valves of creativity.
As someone who swears by the currency of her artistry, particularly during challenging times that have a tendency to demand the rawness of expression, the acute pain of not being able to deliver is throwing me into a cyclone of mental disarray.
For the past two weeks, the disturbance in the force has been apparent.
I tried logging off from daily engagement in an effort to summon a reboot, but when the world is weeping, with each day presenting glaring evidence of unchangeable direness, it’s hard to stay successfully disconnected.
Meditation in the afternoons was an added boost to my routine until the stillness no longer provided the calm and emotional stimulation that used to debug static.
And once writing was beginning to feel like a chore, rather than the much-needed release and victory lap that became the daily accomplishment that kept me sane and grounded even when everything else was falling apart — I knew shit wasn’t right.
It still ain’t right. My thought patterns are erratic.
This leads to obsessively being entangled with people, things, events, that I wouldn’t ordinarily be preoccupied with if not for how I’m slowly distancing from reasonability.
I have no desire to fight off my demons, in fact, I welcome the torture because it gives me the excuse to comfortably pursue nothing at all. To guiltlessly maintain the stance of inefficiency and low productivity, due to reasons beyond my control and the supernatural bolts at play that have forced my hand.
Aside from being moody all day into the night, I’m also convinced that everyone is out to get me.
Text messages from friends and relatives seem to have a deeper meaning, and the translation puts me on the offense without considering the less complicated gestures.
It’s almost as if I want to make enemies of those who truly mean no harm.
I have chip on my shoulder. And that makes a lot of sense, considering where I was before coronavirus became our nightmare, and where I will end up when being outside will no longer endanger lives.
For the past three years I’ve been struggling to make amends with the universe over the bad decision from almost 7 years ago, when I stupidly upended my long-standing stability to chase the dream of being a full-time writer.
Call it consequences from hormonal imbalance after entering a certain age bracket or name the culprit of ill-fated adventurousness, that inevitably leads to losing everything over a huge gamble that didn’t pay off, either way the evidence suggests that I crashed and burned.
Nobody really judges how you got there. It’s mainly about where you are on the scale of passibility by society standards, and if your impressive score demands respectability — what more can you ask for?
My numbers plummeted in 2014, and there were moments when the odds were briefly working in my favor, but a couple of years later, I had to count my losses and prepare for the likelihood of what’s currently transpiring.
When you’re stuck in the cave in your head with surroundings that don’t permit freedom to run free, and possibly outrun those monsters, you have no choice but to stew in unsightly self-pity, which worked quite well back when I was able to shame myself out of it.
But how can I feel sorry for myself when I’m still alive and kicking, while body bags are piling up and bereaved family members are cursed with the sorrow of having to say goodbye in virtual spaces?
Self-hate kicks in, and the negativity is exacerbated by unearthed bad memories that are mixed with our state of affairs that show little signs of improvement.
The battle doesn’t have to be won.
Surrendering to the placement at the bottomless pit is a terrifying decision, but at this point there is really no other solution.
I’m not even contemplating the journey upwards, back to the status of reasonability and the mental discipline that prevents giving into what you know is bad for you.
No, I’m not dangling over the edge, but I don’t necessarily have to be suicidal to make the assessment that alerts me to how dangerously close I am to losing it.
I hate feeling this way, especially when I wish with all my heart that I was in a solid position to be useful in a meaningful way during this horrific period in our history.
But as they say, you can’t give assistance to anyone if you’re unable to entertain any sense of functionality with the consistency that requires being able to think clearly long enough to reassure tangible output.
I complain about not having enough money because editorial jobs are slim to none, and yet when an opportunity was forwarded, I dropped out hours later with a flimsy excuse.
It was wise to reject the assignment after accepting. I didn’t want to deprive a more coherent candidate the access to a short-term gig. It was also scary to witness the full extent of my breakdown.
I have no idea how long my mental vacation will last, but I’m determined not to speed up the return to my senses or organic creativity.
Maybe not being able to rely on the one thing that has never let me down until now, isn’t as frightening as it seems.
It sucks not having your trusted ammunition to counter the attacks that could easily be defeated the only way you knew how. But the violence might crack the code to a higher realm.
This new monster is scathingly brutal and menacingly territorial.
But I haven’t survived this long by being a pushover. Reveling in my loss of power can be the upper hand that reduces the pride of my devilish twin.
I have no idea how long I will reside outside my body, but at least I’m willing to find out.