(ranting after so long)
I’ve always taken everything I do very seriously. The kind of serious where the pre-production of the project will suck the life out of me – both physically and mentally – and the aftermath will leave me nonchalant.
It has been a painful journey for the last 19 years. Whether it was studying for my 10th grade Math board exam or writing something for public consumption: I always have to go through a cycle of immense uncertainty, panic and anxiety before I have it all ready.
Honestly, it sucks. Because I put too much of myself into the little things too and it exhausts me to death, often leaving me in a temporary zone where I loathe myself for being this compulsive. I’ve never done it for a person or a relationship but I’ll do it for work. Any kind of work, anything purposeful.
I truly never have had the right words to describe it so I mostly just refer to it as anxiety. And I guess a part of it IS anxiety but what about the rest of it?
The feeling is strange and comical and no matter how many times I try to describe it, it always comes out inaccurate, incoherent and misleading to the reader (which is mostly just me):
It’s like being plunged into a well of ambiguity and partial blindness where I’m constantly calling out to myself but I can’t hear what I’m saying because everything about my senses has gone numb and/or blank. Floating in a pool of doubts that could eat me alive but instead they’ll just stick to peeling a layer of my wrinkly skin so that I’m left open, waiting to be wounded.
So I’ll just stay there, at the bottom, and count the seconds. I will stare at the blackness in front of me and let the brutality of my consciousness sink in deeper. I will feel my body tighten and shudder and loosen and give up in endless cycles of fear and panic till a certain part of my abdomen begins to ache making me realise just how physical this has become.
Then I take the obvious step of pushing myself up and doing whatever crap comes to my mind. I’ll have to take charge of my thoughts now, as unsuccessfully as possible, because that’s the only way.
But it’s a feel-good end. Always.
And I guess that’s why I don’t crib about it so much.
Sometimes it’s not a feel-good end. Which is when I resort to my tear glands.