Aka my therapist.
One day I was rambling about my insecurities and how anxious I felt by what other people thought of me. I was probably describing one of the many moments in which I used a handicap spot or some other form of assistance, while aware of someone’s eyes on me, observing, probably judging whether I was abusing the system or just straight up not actually ill. My paranoia was always getting the best of me, and it’s a very vulnerable feeling, when someone’s singular subtle action or movement could destroy you in a breath. Why do we let people control us like that? Why do we tend to care so much what other people think?
My therapist said to me at this point, that I was battling two things. The first was the very real struggles I deal with, emotionally and physically, the things I can’t fix, factors completely out of my hands. The second was myself, and very fixable in how I perceived, intercepted, and reacted. It was so cliche, but the way she said it clicked for me. Why was I creating an extra layer of struggle when I had enough to juggle on my plate? Wasn’t it enough that fortune or people made life difficult, why was I piling on more for myself? It was just extra, useless energy.
These were the reasons why I posted on IG and confessed publicly for the first time in my life what I was facing, the burdens that I kept buried for so long. What was the point of keeping them secrets when this was fate and things were going to happen the way they were going to happen regardless? In the grand scheme of things, did it really matter who knew and what they said and thought? People will think what they want to think at the end of the day. And when we reach this point, the end, there really is nothing much else to lose. I’m surrendering it all by laying it all out before me.
I think more and more on what imprints I’ve left on this world. What is it that I want to change, and how is it that I want to be remembered?
A vaguely terminal illness will bring this mentality to the forefront, especially when I’m feeling the real effects and symptoms on my body. I broke down so hard last week that I felt like there was probably nothing left in me to go on. I felt forgotten by the rest of the world, and wasn’t sure at this point it really mattered if anyone did reach out to me to tell me otherwise. My mind spiraled so deep into a really dark future filled with more pain, repetitive suffering, a never-ending uphill battle, where no matter who else talked to me, I was the one who would have to go through it alone, the demise and suffocation, feeling the slow burn failings of my inner workings. I didn’t want to go through it, I wanted to halt the brakes, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I was tired of my mom coming in to help me with every single thing, I was tired of feeling like I was inhaling only 10% when I needed at least another 40% more oxygen through my airways. I was so sick of my heart rate speeding up over 140 bpm if I so much as sneezed. I guess I felt dead inside.
I called a friend, even though I felt so dead that the majority of me didn’t really want to see anyone or contact anyone. If I passed on, people might be a tad sad for a bit, but at the end of the day, people would move on, and that would be all. My friend miraculously cheered me up by staying optimistic and upbeat and keeping some part of me in the realistic loop of the rest of the world’s rhythm, about work, and driving home, and eating, and other mundane tasks. We talked about stupid things, and the distraction definitely pumped a bit more energy back into me. Things would be ok. At least for now. I would make it through, at least this time around.