The chicken or the Egg

Which came first? The chicken or the egg? According to The Second Book of General Ignorance, it was the egg. Well, duh!

But which one is the egg and which one is the chicken? Are these feelings of insecurity caused by depression, or am I depressed because I've always been a little insecure.

It's been a long year. It's been exactly one year. And it's been a horrid year of unbroken depression. At the end of it, I find myself, crippled, unable to take on even the simplest of tasks without straining myself, second guessing my beliefs and finally acknowledging the fact that I seem to have lost all direction. Useless, is the word I'm beginning to associate the most with myself.

I need to know which came first. If insecurity is the egg that hatched the depression, well I need to make myself useful, build a little self-confidence, the onus is on me. If it's depression,I can wallow some more and pray that the medication works.

I hope it's depression. I have more faith in meds than me.

Paranoia

As I lay awake last night, I could hear myself in the other room, walking around, turning on lights, opening drawers, pulling apart curtains, looking for something, searching for someone. I waited for the door to burst open, for me to enter, maniacally happy to have finally found the person I was looking for, me, shivering in the night, cowering under the sheets.

Some people are deathly scared of death, others of ghosts, dogs, dustbins or snakes. I don’t need a boggart to show me what I’m scared of, a mirror will do.

I thought of locking the room, but a calm voice in my head assured me that it wouldn’t help, I was already in the room, there was no keeping me out. I was already there to talk, to taunt and to hurt.

When I’m showering I make sure I never close my eyes, I check underneath the bed and behind the curtains whenever I enter an empty room and I’ve removed the bed from my hostel room.

I know what I'm scared of, but I don't know why, maybe it's all in the head, my head.

Spent the last semester a little stir crazy. Spent half of my time wishing to fall down a rabbit hole, spent the other half trying to make that happen by doing a lot of crazy things.

New semester break, new city, new internship, new medication but same old heart break. There were a couple of posts written about learning to walk, walking out of the woods, but the truth is that I seem to be walking in circles.

The gentleman with thistle down hair

For someone who dishes it out as much as I do, I am painfully slow when it comes to detecting other peoples sarcasm, lies and general deceptions. Essentially I’m a cheerfully oblivious kinda person who accepts whatever other people tell me as the gospel truth. Like the time I was five at the republic day parade and my mom told me that the dinosaur on the float was real. I believed her, I had no reason not to, except for science and I knew nothing about it back then. Then there was the time I was in 4th Grade and our science teacher took an extra class during the computers period, and announced in unmistakably icy tones that those who were more interested in playing on the computers could get up and leave. I got up and left, I still wasn’t too fond of science and I thought she meant it.
Then there are other stories I was told as a kid, such as the one about my cousins grandma owning a little menagerie, which contained peacocks, rabbits and tiger cubs amongst other animals. It took me 15 years to doubt that story and the 7 year old in me still wants to believe that it’s true, that anamma actually owned 3 tiger cubs. Reading people has never been my forte.
I’d like to think that my 4 years in college where I have had the opportunity to observe human nature and behaviour up close has made me more adept at detecting deception. But it’s not so. When I read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, I believed that the footnotes were carefully researched out references to “magic” books that actually existed, until I hit the footnote which began to talk about England’s Faerie King. My science may be weak, but my history is a tad better, and the believing footnotes stopped right there.
It’s a good book, a tad confusing, but fun to read. What really drew me into the story was its antagonist, the gentleman with thistle down hair. The gentleman with thistle down hair, holds people captive in his faerie kingdom of lost-hope where he forces them to dance the nights away, while in the human world these captives withdraw into shells, drowned in misery, unable to talk about their troubles, unable to sleep, eat, or live an ordinary life.
How often have I longed to track down the gentleman with thistle down hair whose been holding me captive, and stab him to bits and pieces, which as wishes go is slightly more acceptable than wanting to stab my teachers, assorted auto drivers and occasionally myself.
Anyway there you go, caustic, unable to read and therefore relate to people, mildly to moderately depressed and with a propensity for angry violence, it’s been a long time growing up and I’m still not done. The last bout of depression was particularly bad, I’m not yet out of the woods, but I’m finally up on my feet, walking and trying to get out.

Feeling Better

I haven’t written anything in a long time. I haven’t been able to, I’ve been too busy. Busy wallowing in equal parts of self pity and self loathing. Depressed, dejected, feeling dumb and dull, I’ve lost the ability to articulate my opinions. Have a conversation. Write. Think.

I’ve spent the last couple of months eating, sleeping and sleep walking. I’ve “done” quite a bit, but none of it has registered over the persistent throbbing dull, sad feeling. The only things that come to mind are unpleasant breakdowns I’ve had, failures and dead ends I’ve hit in the past few months.

I’m being dragged through college by family and friends for a degree and the promise of something better after (just) one and half years more. I’m due to give my third repeat exam and at the rate my CGPA is dropping I wonder if I will be able to convince my college to let me out with a degree, much less convince some other college to let me in without a capitation fee.

I’ve been waiting for something to happen. Every day, every hour, every minute of my existence I pray for something to happen. Something which will come, sweep me out of this funk I’m in. But nothing happens unless you make it happen and the only things that I feel I can make happen are, to put it bluntly, not pleasant.

So instead I am going to write about what all has already happened to me, what I’m grateful for, and what some of my coping mechanisms are. It’s a little gratitude post, it’s going to tell me that all is not lost, that I still have a life worth fighting for and the means to fight that battle.

One of the most important things that has happened to me is blogging. It’s been a year since I started blogging, and words cannot express how much it means to me. Nonetheless I will make a short feeble attempt at explaining the role it’s begun to play in my life. Blogging gives me a sense of accomplishment, something that I badly need in the face of my failing academic career. I’ve been accused of TMI on my blog, but I don’t really care, being brutally honest on my blog has helped me deal with personal issues and insecurities with a sense of humour, it has helped me come to terms with a myself that I wanted to hide. It’s helped me understand that these insecurities are shared by others and that if I say it out aloud, I will have received and given empathy. Blogging is an outlet for a great deal of frustration, whenever I find myself in what would earlier have been a stressful or anger inducing situation, I now tell myself to take a step back, observe the situation with a sense detachment and humour so that I can blog about it later. And when I fail to achieve that state of detached humour, writing invariably calms me down and helps me sort out the very strong opinions and emotions I feel.

I owe blogging to my friends and sisters, hereinafter referred to as friends. I owe a lot to my friends. They read my blog, they listen to me and they love me. I doubt that anybody will find so perfect a combination of love, craziness, intelligence, individuality and spirit than what’s housed in my hostel. Often when I listen to other people talk about their friends, I find myself pitying them for not having mine. From my school days (when I would walk around alone in the lunch break, eating food continuously, trying to look busy, so that no one would notice I had no one to hang out with) to today (where I have in my room a wall painted bright red by my friends, so that as they explained to me, when I’m depressed and have locked myself into my room, I can look at the wall, and remember that I have friends, that I am a person people want to be friends with) I have come a long way. And it’s because of them. I’ve found my happily ever after.

Then there are the parents, they listen, they counsel, they support, they put up. I have faith in them. They are individualists and I know that whenever they have to make a decision regarding me, they think of what I would want, instead of what they want for me. They understand that I’m not them, that their values aren’t necessarily mine and that I will do things differently from them when the time comes.

So, I’ve written. The tears which prompted me to write this post have dried up. I’m feeling a lot better. From tomorrow, I will begin taking baby steps towards even more betterhood.

Instead of sleeping for hours and hours in my room, I will sleep in various rooms across the corridor, while the owners of the room do whatever it is that they’re doing. When you’re depressed and not in a position to talk to others, laugh with them, this is an easy way to gently ease back into a social life. I will resume jogging, I have no self-control when it comes to stimulants of any variety, food, music, alcohol. Jogging is a “safe” stimulant, but I end up abusing jogs as well. Once I’m in the routine, my body begins to yearn for the jogging high, I spend the entire day waiting for when I can go jogging, unable to do anything but look at the clock, when something threaten the jog, like rain or a dinner plan with friends, I get panicky and worked up. When I’m jogging, I find myself unable to stop until I’m exhausted. I will not let that happen. I will listen to anyone else who needs to talk. Because to know that you’re not alone, is the most important thing. I will ask for help when I need it.

(for those of you who are wondering, I started writing this post on the 9th of January. That day all that I could write before I gave up was the first line, also I have given and passed my repeat since then)