Choosing to Stay Alive

Lisa Simpson
At least, Lisa gets it

I’m not a fan of chores of any kind. I hate brooms that need me to bend. I like the easiest path in life and hate unnecessary stress.

I think the idea of taking a more difficult path when there’s an easy way just to prove my ‘hard work’ virtuous is ridiculous and a waste of time.

I don’t believe the reward for hard work is more work. The reward for hard work should be rest, long hours of rest.

I’m the kind of person who Googles ‘When will robots become accessible to us?’ because why not.

On most days, this applies to living. Living is hard work and on some days it is torture.

For a few weeks now I have struggled to get anything done. It is even more devastating that I just started getting my life together after a major breakdown I had at the beginning of the year.

To be honest, it sometimes feels like I am having a relapse. It feels like I am slowly falling back into that darkness and consuming gloom. This scares me. The possibility that the bridge I thought was burned down managed to stay together to watch me fall apart on its deck for the umpteenth time is my greatest nightmare. I don’t want to moonwalk to that place where panic attacks find me familiar enough to visit me every day.

Talking about panic attacks and their ghetto ways.

I hate how I have no control over anything when this breathtaking process begins.

Even the urgency of a situation doesn’t matter. I hate how suffocating it is. How it feels like my lungs are resisting my entire existence. I hate how it feels like I’m about to blow up.

The heat from my overworking thought machine invades every part of my being and sometimes translates to terribly high body temperature or literally hot tears.

What is most fascinating is how all of this feels like an illusion when it is over. It feels like I was stuck in limbo.

There are no receipts from this exchange. How do I then prove to the multitude of people holding a deadline placard in my head that I cared about these deadlines, but I was incapable of even controlling my limbs?

Two weekends ago, I had to call the Panic attack hotline, I was too afraid I was going to snap if I don’t get help. And sometimes it feels like a back and forth motion. Like there is no redemption from this place.

I won’t lie that I was immediately overshadowed with peace after the call. That kind of peace is fickle. I believe peace comes in bits and pieces. Enveloping the chaos one inch at a time. Leaving you unsure of its existence because of how graceful it insists on invading a place that needs it to stay together. It engulfs these tiny agents of agitation, wraps around their tiny distress commanding fingers till they drown in the tranquillity. Rinse and repeat.

I’m writing this because writing is one of the ways I survive. It is the canvas upon which my thoughts find rest. It is the cave I hide in when the rest of the world doesn’t make any sense. It is where I don’t have to apologize for how my mind works sometimes- seemingly unaware that I need to progress in life.

When people say there is so much to live for, I want to shout. Not because they are wrong but because that is the problem. There is in fact too much to live for and this can be very overwhelming. For someone tired of existing, a reminder of the demands of living is never a relief.

Realizing that I have to wake up the next day to the stage of life ready for my performance is why I run to places I don’t need to perform. Places my existence is enough. Into a room filled with my favorite people, or these very pages I write on. Anywhere I don’t need to apologize for how I feel or even explain. It is for these very places I still choose to stay alive not the possibility of becoming great in the future because greatness doesn’t shield you from this constant battle.

This is one of my first attempts in getting back on my feet after being thrown off yet again and I look forward to taking the next few steps.

That’s a lie. I’m terrified and can’t promise I can keep it together tomorrow but that doesn’t matter anymore because I’ve left the stage and I no longer need a performance to exist. This is also another reason I choose to stay alive.

A beautiful note I got fro Twitter
A beautiful note I saw on Twitter

Talking about cycles, lyrics from Alien at home by Ignis Brothers Band describes it almost too perfectly

These walls are closing in
And I’m losing my confidence
It’s alright to be broken sometimes
I swear I’ve been here before
In my hands the keys that fit this door
Oh, why do I feel like a lost soul

I tried to run from my pain
I took a trip to outer space
I’ve been there a long time
But then the voices called me home
Now I’m here I don’t belong
And so I put this in a song

So, in staying alive I have chosen to never embrace the deceit that it isn’t hard. Heck! On some days, I hate it here and these lyrics from ‘I lied’ by you know who (yes, I’ve embraced my obsession) reminds me this difficulty is also known by others and not a unique curse. And in this difficulty, little miracles like laughter and bigger ones like finally finishing this make the next breath easier and staying alive worth it.

Now the final lyrics

Just in case I don’t return
Sing a song for me
Make the lyrics sweet
And sing a soft melody
If my soul gets lost at sea
Say a prayer for me
Raise your hands to heaven
And pray they let me in

If I told you I’m not scared
Oh I lied, oh I lied
If I said my heart was steel
It’s all lies, all lies
‘Cos the cost of being brave
Is far too much for me
If I told you I’m not scared
Oh I lied, oh I lied

And even with how much I detest hard labor (exaggeration intended), I still have to do it and on some days this reminds me my choice isn’t so stupid after all.

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