K's post "the day you did not kill yourself" made quite an impression. I check out K's blog every few days, partly because i know him personally, partly because he makes me laugh, and mostly because i am just intrigued by what he has to say, ramblings of a half mad man at peace with himself.....
Lines from that post haunt me, litteraly haunt me, and on this confusing Tuesday morning all i can think of is: '.....but there is no one you can ask about it'.
It seems in my obejectivity and open mindedness i am often in search of a bench mark, of a reassurance that it's ok to do what i do, K would ask me why do i even care about normal? He would tell me to make up my own mind about what i think is right for me.
What is right for me? what is right for me? often lost between two worlds, often impersonating the very people i have judged, so many contradictions in one mind on who to be, chilled and anxious, happy and restless, firm and wishy washy about the very blocks that build my core. Confident and so bloody unsure of which mistakes are freeing, and which ones are irreversible...
I wish there was anyone i could ask about it...
"Then things happened .....but you don't wanna talk about it"
So i resign to my mind, can i google this? can i research this? can i think about it obsessivly till part of me wins and i find my peace? will the chilled eventually calm the anxious? will my guilt be sedated by reason? will i forgive myself today as i must have not thought it wrong enough to not go there to begin with? can i start over? do i want to start over?
Then slowly but surely i reach my next stage of anxiety:
"......but you don't wanna think about it."
and that ends it, supresses it, along with all the other things i couldn't deal with and ignored in fear of being neurotic. It passes, i tell myself that i've done worse, i tell myself to give myself a break, that if it bothers me that much i should just quit it. I find my peace in my acceptance that there is nothing i can do about it.
But then someone, someday, says they almost did something similar, or they did what you did and regretted it, and everyone laughs at the far away story, and without knowing it they pick at your conscience, they scratch at your wound of a burried memory. Everyone looked at you to join in the merry reminiscing.
"...but you didn't laugh about it."
On this very gloomy morning i find comfort in your post. cheers K, at least there's someone who can write about it.