Currently writing is such a struggle to do, it feels like such a chore! I’m not sure if it’s because deep down, I know writing will help me start to get well, to feel better and find the root of what’s going on? Is it that I want to remain sick, stuck in this constant skirmish with worthlessness, failure and guilt? Fighting a disorder that pops out at any given moment, sometimes it seems with no warning, other occasions, it’s as if I have invited this monster through the front door.
Why do I hesitate, to do the things which would help me, reclaim what’s left of myself? Am I scared, of what I will discover? Do I know, I am not worth saving, or that no matter how much effort I put in, I can’t be saved, so it would be a wasted struggle? Am I just lazy?
I don’t understand, why so many other people have their lives under control? They are in content, stable relationships, have happy children, eat well balanced, healthy meals, which they plan a week in advance, have tidy, organized homes, careers they enjoy, families they are close with, friends from when they were young; there’s no need for excessive amounts of alcohol, binging and purging, marijuana, no need to find something to ease or numb all the hurt, guilt or pain. Do they not feel the aching, the shame? Are they so unaware or already so indifferent to the world and what’s going on, they don’t feel anything?
Why has the act of feeling all the things, come to land on my shoulders? Why when someone or something else is hurt, in trouble, scared, why deep in my core, do I feel that? Not that I don’t want to be empathetic, but it makes it extremely difficult not to be dependant on some type relief, some type of escape. It makes it difficult not to be annoyed, at those who aren’t compassionate, who don’t see the trouble we are in, who are blind to others and what’s happening around them. Even more problematic, is the act of trying to be accepting and sparing with myself, as I am completely aware of my performance as a human, caregiver, vegetarian, as an empath; I know every selfish step I take and have taken, over the years.
They say, things have to get worse, before they get better; presumably rock bottom is a different space, a distinct place for each person. I always assumed, it was typically losing their loved ones, money, job, home, things which are tangible. But perhaps for someone who is an empath, who feels things profoundly, aching not just for themselves, but all of those, man or beast, that suffer, who just wants to forget, rock bottom is remembering, exploring the feelings, moving towards the discomfort.
Conceivably, the only way to get better, would be to get much worse? To feel the heartache, to write about and consider it, to share what I find, even if it doesn’t make sense?