Private Hell

January 8th, 2021

When I was little, I used to give myself panic attacks at night whenever my mind would yet again wander onto the concept of what happens to us when we die. Even as young as 11, I’d be up at night too frightened to fall asleep because I simply couldn’t fathom that we just cease to exist when we pass on. Even the mere thought of losing consciousness when you sleep would make tense up and lie awake for hours on end.

I think a large part of where those fears stemmed from, and something that’s characteristic of sleeping or dying, is the inability to have control of your body or mind. Even today, easily one of my largest worries, at times on a daily basis, is that I may one day lose control of myself.

With time, I’ve come to witness multiple instances of people close to me who would come to eventually struggle with and even pass away from diseases that restricted control of their bodies. A situation or burden like that on one’s soul continues to sit resolute as number one on my dramatically long list of personal fears.

Not having control. It’s been an entire year of feeling like I don’t have control. That’s not even specifically talking about the civil unrest, pandemic or what just occurred in D.C., rather this is going to be more of a selfish post.

Every month of 2020 has been one of personal struggles and frantic attempts to keep myself aligned with the world around me. It’s had failed relationships. It’s had bad habits and imbibing of (legal) addictive substances I never thought I’d become reliant on.

After I started taking Zoloft, I only cried three times the entire rest of the year. Once when I heard that Reckful had passed away, while watching The Perks of Being A Wallflower, and when I learned that my mother had been diagnosed with lung cancer.

I don’t think for a single time in 2020 I actively listened to the lyrics of a song. What does that mean?

2020 also brought the end of a relationship I had only started just in 2019. That was enlightening on a lot of fronts.

At the beginning of 2020, my new apartment felt so spacious and comforting. Nowadays, it feels like every week rooms get smaller, and that eventually I’ll no longer be able to breathe.

This year I’ll be 27. What can I even tell people I actually accomplished in 2020? I know we’re all currently caught up in this situation, but what did I take away from it? Did I make enough effort for myself to explore and nurture my authentic self, or did I squander what could have been an invaluable and unique amount of introspection?

I’m scared. I’m scared of what will happen in 2021. I’m scared of what could happen.

A person’s life is nothing but a constant science experiment where they test never-ending amounts of stimulus and variables against themselves to achieve what could resemble a state of personal satisfaction, but what if that state, that base dependent variable, is unknown or unfamiliar?

What if you’ve never known a state such as that, so you have nothing to even compare against? I’m hoping I either find or rediscover just that in 2021.

If you can’t even acknowledge what makes you happy, what kind of goals are you chasing in life, other than the ones placed on you by others?

I’m ready to step outside again.