Quicksand

I wish this post was on how to survive quicksand, something Theodore Finch from All the bright places would talk about. I mean, he already gave us a list and it pretty much works. This is not about surviving quicksand though. I know a bit of the survival but not enough to write on. What can I say, this year is getting the best of me and I do not mean that in a good way. I know it is only March, the very beginning of it atleast, but that is just the point. I can barely tell where the past two months have gone which I suppose is something a lot of people think about as well. However, for me, it is a frightening thought because I can feel myself getting into the quicksand territory. I wish this awareness meant victory but…
Two years ago, I had the longest period of dissociation I have ever been in. There are about five or six months I barely remember living at all. I am only certain of two things from that period and that is because I have evidence of them happening. One, I bought and read a book called Dreamland by Sarah Dessen. I know I read this book because I have it lying somewhere in my room and also because my writing appears in some of the margins of the book. I like to personalize my reads after all. The second thing I am certain I did was writing in my journal. This is I am sure of because there is a ten-page entry in the journal for all the six months. Knowing myself, I never go a week or at most two weeks, without journalling. There is also a memory of me seating on a heap of blankets, writing while crying, the rain pattering against my window. Apart from these two activities, everything else is a haze. A fog. A dense grey mist I cannot make anything out of. Well I know I breathed because I am here now but that does not make me feel better. You know, some time back, a friend of mine told me he thinks I stretch things a little here. Artistic license perhaps? Maybe in order to get an emotional reaction, to get a few tears from the readers or whatever he meant really. I was slightly offended. I do not stretch things here. Not at all. Sure, I use hyperbole as linguistic device in some phrases. When it comes to writing about the events of my life and mind however, I say it as it is or as it was. I will use some linguistic devices but the event remains unchanged. I understand what this is all about perhaps. The truth can be too much to bear. It can be hard to accept the pain of another person to be as harsh, as brutal and as crude as they say it to be. But is it not that the first step to empathy? The bottom line is that I am completely honest in this space. I really do not care if it is too much. I have already been accused of that in real life but I do not have qualms about that here. None at all.
I might have gotten carried away for a moment or two from what I was talking about. This post seems to be as jumbled as my thoughts and worries are. I feel like I am getting into another period of dissociation. I cannot afford to lose another couple of months of my life, not knowing what is going on, as if it is not I but someone else running my life including my body and mind. True, all time does is pass away. For me though, it feels like I pass away with it. That my being is pasing away as well. All I do is sit and decay. Rot away. Unable to make any progression in healing, schoolwork, career wise and anything else really. I tried mentioning this to my friend but it cannot exactly be explained and or understood either. Haruki Murakami says, ”when I spend the day alone, I feel as if my flesh is rotting little by little- rotting and melting until there is nothing left but a green puddle that gets sucked down the earth.” Plath mentioned her fear of being brilliant and useless when she said, ” what horrifies me most is the idea of being useless. well-educated, brilliantly promising and fading out…” Which is all heartbreaking. Enough to make me cry. Isn’t that how I feel though? Brilliant and useless. I am stuck, drowning in quicksand and I cannot explain why I cannot do what I really wish to do. Plath, ”It was becoming more and more difficuIt for me to decide to do anything in those last days.” I know it sounds like such a freaking lame excuse except to those who have experienced this quicksand. All I do is sit and make plans but cannot execute them. I tell myself I am participating in real life by the plans I am making even though getting into them is when hell breaks loose. The undertows come brazen with fury. The quicksand swallows me whole. Do you know what Alaska from Looking for Alaska said? She said, ”You spend your whole life stuck in the labyrinth, thinking how you’ll escape it one day and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going but you never do it. You use the future to escape the present.” I am stuck here in the labyrinth. Stuck in quicksand. A place outside time. I cannot pinpoint and say it is my fifteenth year or seventeenth I cannot get past. No. It is not like that. This place just is. And I just am. I tell myself that I am not wasting time. I am breathing. I am trying to live. But the sinister echoes say that I am just wasting away. I am decaying. I am losing time and losing my life as well. And so I drown. Quicksand.
That reminds me about a certain part two whose original draft got lost. Nevertheless, I can get to write it if the bell jar will not have descended and stifled me completely. I mean promises cannot be made here. We live each day with the energy of that day and that day alone most of the times. Every breath is a miracle, so does Switchfoot sing. I also want to write on Finch’s guide on surviving quicksand. Next time.

love x light.

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