It feels like I have been away from my home from too long. And while every word of that sentence is true in actuality, in a more metaphorical sense I have been away from this blog for too long. And now that the clouds shed away and the prodigal writer in me returns, I feel like I can finally breathe. My fingers are defying the laws of physics as I type my soul out; my heart feels full again. My body feels so light, I might just start floating in the air any second now; writing has a high of its own.
It’s not like I didn’t try; I have a draft folder full of half written gibberish to prove it. I guess I had to get out of the weird funk I was in to be able to write again.
So what happened this time? I did what I usually do: stopped in the middle of life and cried rivers and oceans and whirlpools and monsoons over all that I have lost. And I blamed myself for every iota of the disaster that I thought had befallen me. Walls were closing in again and I spent day after day in constant pain. It felt like the storm would never end, no matter what I did.
But then, as it continued to rain, I decided I needed to shelter myself from the elements if I was going to survive this. An epiphany dawned on me, and I held on it for dear life: I realised that I needed to stop pretending that I knew everything. More so, I needed to stop beating myself over the things I didn’t know.
And that is when I decided to burn (only metaphorically, because hello environment) all the prizes I received as a kid that called me a “perfectionist” or “miss 10/10”. I had to let that notion go because in all honesty, you cannot be a perfectionist at something you have no experience of. (And calling the point I am in my life right now “uncharted waters” would be an understatement.) I was waging a war against myself, wounding no one but myself in the process, with nothing to show for it, except depression and anxiety.
And just like that, I did something I wish I had done sooner: I gave myself permission to fail. I decided I was completely fine with failing at everything I do. I was okay with stumbling and falling and bruising myself, as I try to navigate life. I accepted that I am not an prodigy, I am not Einstein, or Van Gogh or J.D. Salinger. I am the mess that is me.
While I try to improve myself and learn new skills, I am okay with sucking at things. I will not hold myself responsible for the fact that everything I touch doesn’t turn into gold. Without realising it, I had put myself, or rather my illusion of my own self, on a pedestal. And boy, did I fall.
And this has solved every problem in my life!
Roll end credits.
(Of course that’s a lie.)
I am sorry to not leave you with a happy ending; almost every problem which lead to my breakdown which, in turn, lead to my precious epiphany, still persists to, pretty much, the same degree. The only difference is that, now, I do not take the problems seriously: I accept that I am shitty at life.
Failure is my new best friend and, in all honesty, the relationship is truly liberating.