I wasn’t sure if I’d put that on Progress or Journal, but as these are just thoughts and not actions for now, I’d rather share it as such. I’m weary of the sudden realizations and motivation to change my life drastically, but I’ve felt the urge to write this down today, as a way to vent. Just to acknowledge for once this frustration that has been growing in my heart lately. There’s always a time when I’m so fed up of feeling stuck that it gives me the strength to get out of my comfort zone.
A wave of panic and revolt swept over me today. What the hell am I doing with my life? Is this what I want? Getting up every day, with no real meaning to what I do, with no perspective, chasing “menial tasks” to give some meaning to a life in need of a deeper change? What started out as a time of forced rest has turned into an excuse. “I take care of myself” increasingly became my only answer to: “I’m afraid to try to live.” I will never spit on what I learned in the previous two years, but what made sense yesterday makes less and less sense today.
I didn’t wait for the lockdown to see my life change drastically in a short period of time. Before covid, my life had already begun to take a drastic turn, and the social isolation only amplified and opened up wounds that were only cracks before. I’ve never felt that low regarding my depression and I’ve rarely felt as crippled by anxiety since covid striked.
Before covid, I lost my brother, my health declined sharply, I found myself without a job, my relationship with my partner went through some very difficult times and I questioned our future many times, I cut ties with my mother after a decade of hesitation, I’m waiting to find out if it will be the same with my dad as t his will be resolved once we’d be able to see each other, I lost the social circle that my work had given me, I wanted to die, I tried to die.
And then I matured. I learned to assert my voice more and more without being afraid to soften my heart. I rediscovered a love for passions that I didn’t even dare to try, like drawing. I have made new friendships online with people I consider to be my chosen family. I have loved every second of it. I have seen one, then two therapists, and am waiting to try with a new one, when doing so seemed unthinkable before the lockdowns. I started antidepressant treatment, dealing with other health issues that had been waiting for years as well. I learned to deal with old traumas, to cry and feel again, and not just be a “doing” and “absorbing” machine. All of this is new and has yet to grow. First steps.
But damn, now what am I still doing at home, hiding out of fear of living? My life is on hold because I’m afraid to work again. I know that this is a master key to my present, future, and that of my relationship with my partner. Yet I continue to pretend that this knowledge does not really exist. I am afraid to work again. I am terrified of taking on responsibilities that will be the source of all kinds of evaluations. I am terrified of job interviews, as they represent issues related to my deepest insecurities. I am afraid of rejection. I am afraid of failure. I’m afraid of being a failure, of feeling that way over and over again because I’d put myself in situations where I’d still be confusing - wrongly - who I am and what I do. So I don’t even try anymore. Because not really living seems less scary and more reassuring. It’s a lie that I seem to tell myself over and over again, unconsciously, and through inaction.
But I am reaching my limits. I’m tired of hiding. More and more, I feel the trend reversing and spontaneous moments of internal rebellion: the weight of comfort through inaction is becoming much heavier than the anxiety of acting and putting myself out there.
Yes, I am afraid. But what is the alternative? What’s the point of letting my entire life falling down in slow motion, and witnessing it day by day passively? My love, our dreams, our future, my hopes. I keep persisting in burdening myself with a sentence I never deserved: to be alive without existing. My mind was fucked up with forced, survival instincts. All in the name of fears, insecurities, and anxiety. But just like depression is not a good adviser once we feel suicidal, chronic anxiety is not a good adviser when we feel insecure. It actually prevents someone to live. Part of me is so, so sick of it.
I can’t stop being anxious, but I can stop listening to what it has always encouraged me to believe in. I want to see my anxiety as the signal of what shouldn’t be done, and not the opposite. Feeling like I can’t try? Like I’m a burden? Like I’m not capable? Like it’s not worth it? I want to dare to try. Because I’d rather die knowing that I tried and failed instead of living a life full of regrets and missed opportunities. What’s the point of the air that I breathe if I don’t even try to use it?
I want to work on myself in a more active and honest way, not for the illusion of defeating my anxiety, but in order to thrive in spite of it. I want to put my life in order again. I want to get back on the train that I was kicked off of, and that I stopped chasing afterwards. I don’t want to feel anymore as if suicide would be a valid option, only because my insecurity puts me in this corner where everything seems impossible, out of reach, or simply “not for me”. My next big step in this life is to find a new job, and I’m more determined to give myself a chance on this matter from now on.
Heck I’m going to feel so insecure in the future, so unsafe during times of failure. I already feel that way just for writing this. But f*ck. Let’s fail as long as needed. Let’s succeed for God’s sake. And more than anything, let’s try to live.