To my inner child.

These past weeks have been hell and it doesn’t seem to end. Every time I think that I’ve hit rock bottom the ground under me perversely dissolves like quicksand. Any sudden change in pressure causes a shock in my body and mind and I sink even deeper. Sometimes, as I in panic grasp for air and vainly try to find something to hold on to, there’s a sudden silence when everything stands still and I experience myself from the outside. I look like a fool. The amount of anxiety and life shit storms is surrealistic to the point that it’s almost out of this world, but mostly comical. From a victim’s mentality I sometimes wish someone would have recognized my life as a modern Greek tragedy. But it’s not a story and there is no hero, yet I am writing this for you to read.

I often write to you. On random loose sheets, post-its and occasionally in notes on my phone. I don’t know who you are but I want to believe that even in my deepest moments of self-hatred, there is you.

Often my thoughts aren’t shared publicly but I want to leave something behind. Isn’t that why we are here? Probably it’s the ego speaking but I can’t bear the thought of experiencing so much pain for nothing. I also know that I’m far from being alone. Many friends have told me of their stigma. For some it has been so heavy that they saw no other ways than the irrevocable ones to ease the torment.

Left behind I’m scared of my own clock ticking. I’ve always felt that I live on borrowed time and if we look at the stats, the odds aren’t really in my favor. After over ten years of on-and-off depression I’ve reached an age where I for the first time can look back and tremble of anticipation before the future. I would lie if I told you that I wasn’t scared. I feel so lost and deprived of life.

It’s taken me a long time to admit to myself and others that my mental health isn’t so stable. Even when writing this I doubt the diagnosis “they” labelled me with almost 10 years ago. It’s unfair to have so much passion and dreams just to repeatedly be cruelly and cold-hearted robbed of them in your own home. How you become paralyzed, shed pathetic tear drops and sob like a spoiled child over nothing. Begging for your life. When you feel so worthless and naive for thinking that things would be different this time around. It always amazes me how someone can be so stupid and fall for their own lies. But worst of all – there’s no one to blame. I am my own perpetrator, my own offender and my own prisoner.

I am afraid of leaving the cage. Afraid that you will find my vulnerability pretentious and attention- seeking (and probably there’s some truth in it) but the shame I feel is old and existed in others long before I was even brought to this world. I innerly wish that someone would have welcomed me to a warmer place than the one I was cradled into. Maybe I then wouldn’t have been so bipolar I tell myself.

Now I fear the unknown but all my survival strategies have failed. I find myself swimming without a life-vest. The waves are high and vicious but I can only think of the soft bottom of the ocean, a place where I will finally find peace. I want to swallow all the water in the world so that my body liquifies in particles and becomes a part of everything and nothing. So really I have nothing to lose.

If anything I wish to nurture the life of my inner child as no one else can parent me. So I write to you my child in a desperate pursuit to stop this intergenerational charade of madness that started long before you even took the first breath. Only then can life start.


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