In painting class, we were assigned to choose one of Picasso’s pieces and replicate it with monochromatic colors. My professor looked at mine and said, “That is definitely one from his Blue Period.” I replied, “Yes, I just feel like this really reflects my life at the moment.”

I thought there was an earthquake two nights ago… everything was shaking so much and I was panicking so hard. When I tried to get up, I was paralyzed and I laid there, couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, absolutely helpless and scared for my life. Somehow, I fell asleep, and I woke up the next morning with my phone and one of my pillows on the floor, and I was still shaken up from the night before… but it wasn’t until my teammates gave me a funny look after I asked if they felt an earthquake that I realized that none of it was real. Just a really vivid nightmare, and in my fitful sleep, I probably knocked some of my stuff onto the ground.

The bizarre thing about dreams is that they can totally manipulate you into thinking that everything happened and it stays stored in some resting part of your brain until something reminds you that, actually, no, that was all made-up. When I found out that there wasn’t an earthquake, I kept wondering if I was crazy… but the rational part of me realized that my current state of self seeped into my subconscious and manifested itself in my dreams. Basically, that “earthquake” symbolizes the tumult of my difficult life and my paralysis is this current deep-rooted struggle of not knowing how to deal with it. In other words: I’ve been really sad for a while now, and I don’t know what to do about it.

I’ve been avoiding writing a new post for the main reason that I do not want to write anything sad on this blog. Too many people have come up to me and told me how inspiring my words are for them, and it fills my heart up so much. I would never want anyone to feel any negative emotion after reading any of my posts… but I’m at a point where I refuse to blog because of sadness and feeling like I don’t know how to write anymore, and I want to change that. So I’m going to try my best to articulate the right words for what I’m about to say, but I want to apologize beforehand because I can’t find the writer in me right now.

You see, “depression” is a really heavy word that people loosely throw around, and one can say, “this book depresses me” and that can be accurate if it makes one’s mood all wonky and low, but to say “I’m so depressed after reading this book” can be tricky because (first of all) WHAT is depression? How is it classified? Do we need a medical diagnosis? Can a set of symptoms really tell us what’s going on within our little delicate bodies? I don’t know, and to be honest, even if a doctor were to tell me that I am or am not depressed, I wouldn’t believe them, because mental disorders are so subjective. There’s some kind of fine line that divides two sides that are labeled “nah, you’ll be okay” and “here, take these drugs.” It’s confusing and dangerous and I refuse to delve into all that classification mumbo-jumbo. So I’ve conceded to simply say that I am currently very sad, and I have been sad for a while now. It just took me quite a lot of bad days to admit it to myself.

I might know what triggered me to feel this way, but of course, I can’t really be too sure. But all I know is that there is a difference in the way I carry myself physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, compared to a few months ago. I’ve been sluggish and lethargic. It’s hard to focus or stay awake for too long, so reading and writing have been incredibly difficult for me. Especially writing. You can only imagine how frustrating it is to have all these swarming ideas in my head, only for them to escape me and here I am, left typing like a twelve-year-old with very weak diction. Pathetic. Gone is the girl that people have been so accustomed to labeling as positive and happy– I can’t even count how many times in a day people ask “how are you?” and I never ever say “good” anymore. It’s hard because I don’t want to explain myself, so sometimes I just make a light face and shrug and try to leave before they ask. Maybe that’s rude. So I apologize. But it’s challenging to smile and be around people. People always telling me that I look tired. Or lost. Or confused.

It’s overwhelming, and it doesn’t help that I love to help people (all three of my jobs are to do just that) and people have grown to recognize how accessible I actually am. So when I’m sitting on my bed, channeling my inner thoughts and trying to make sense of my life, there never fails to be a knock on the door with problem at hand. I used to utilize this as a coping mechanism– that by helping others with their struggles, I could somehow use that to distract myself from thinking about my own. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

Wrong. Things just got worse. Their burdens became mine, and consequently, I felt their pain and sadness and brought my own to a whole nother level. Please, don’t get me wrong. These people that came to me were lights in my life because I cared deeply about them, they trusted me enough to be their backbone, and it feels so good to help another human being. But I started to realize that I became sadder by the day. My empathy went miles too deep and each story, each issue, each tear were layers upon layers added onto my shoulders. My plate of preexisting problems became too full to carry.

Heavier and heavier… and now, I’m crumbling. And I’m scared, so scared. I’ve come to a point where I’m pushing people out of my life when I know I probably should hold onto them the strongest. But it’s difficult when I’ve only known to try and stay strong because nobody’s there to catch your tears and be with you every single vulnerable step of the way. People have their own lives and qualms and business to take care of and I would never, ever want anyone to feel obligated to take care of me. Because I’ve always got me, weathered all these damn storms by myself, gotten through the most painful shit all in one piece, pulling myself by the nape of my collar. But is this healthy? I can only play so much ukulele in one day until I get tired of playing the same songs over and over again, can only drink so much to numb the pain until I get too truthful that it hurts, can only pierce so much to make new holes to replace other empty parts of me, can only buy myself so many flowers until they wilt and pass away, can only sit and think in silence for so long until it becomes maddening and I’m suffocating from my inability to cry.

I wish I could cry, but I haven’t been able to. It’s all those years that I’ve conditioned myself not to cry, because someone that I used to love more than anything told me that I cried too much about too little of matters. So it’s just silence. Numb and still. Everything feels calm but I wish I could be expressive and emotional so at least I can release my tears before I start drowning inside.

It’s not like I don’t know what is bothering me. I have a laundry list of them in my head and on paper and I peruse them whenever I get the chance. But a lot of times, when I try to think of ways to combat these struggles, I draw a blank and all I end up doing is sitting stock-still without a single conscious thought until I snap out of it and try to forget about my problems. But that only lasts for so long. And it’s this back-and-forth cycle… I hope it stops soon. I hope I find a solution soon. I think I need to start praying again, because everything feels too painful and heavy to try and handle all of this by myself.

For those who are reading this, I’m sorry if I’ve made you sad at all. That was never my intention. I just wanted to write on here again, for the sake of writing, because if I’ll always be something, I’d want to be a writer. But I want to reassure you all that I’m hopeful… I’m still classic, hopeless romantic Mar that believes in all things, and I still believe in myself. I’ve just got a lot going on right now, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but I’m going to fix it with God’s guidance, and everything is going to be okay. EGBOK.


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