I don't know if I eaat because I want to, or because I want to erase the feelings of denial and restriction from the countless times in my childhood when I was told to watch what I was eating.
I am gaslit, both self-induced and externally (I think), to the extent that I don't even know what is real or relevant or worth thinking of, anymore. So I overthikn everything. I overanalyse everything. I obsess on the bad side and theorise and hypothesise on what seems to me, the only and inevitable worst possible outcome to all of the disasters I imagine. I can feel myself digging a deep hole, slipping down a fathomless slope but "shaking myself out of it" seems inane and silly. i don't even know anymore. Nothing calms me like the beating. Not as quickly nor as completely. It's like instatnt punishment makes me live with the guilt of my transgressions.
When did I stop writing?
And, why? When did I decide that what I had to say did not deserve to be said? When did I start convincing myself that I had nothing worthwhile go say? That my thoughts did not deserve to be expressed? I could pinpoint the exact year. I can visualise every feeling of self-doubt, self-censure and self-derision that I've inflicted on myself over the years. I can recount countless instances where I've chosen to bury down what I had to say rather than express it and face the realities such expression would bring. But now I ask, finally - who is that serving? The world, that is happy not to have another's voice join in on its cacophony? The people around me, who will no sooner reach out to provide reassurances to me than I will verbally ask for them? It's a no-win situation. All I know is that when I pen down words, my soul soars and my life feels alive again. I am deciding not to deprive myself of that feeling anymore. No matter how I've tried to bury it down in t...
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