Friday, December 8, 2017

A Journal of a Blue Bird Called Molly: Page 5: Of Suicide & co (PART II)

I remember one early morning about three years ago when I was on my way to my university, a young man hung himself in a tree. The body was covered with a white sheet. The body was not taken down till the police came. I remember it vividly now. The weather was gloomy; the scene was very artistic. I saw Antonio Vivaldi by the tree playing his Winter piece. All what I could think at that moment was 'at last, he's free'. Suicide has nothing to do with how religious or how much of a believer you are. I had had suicidal thoughts ever since I used to be very religious. I had had them when I became irreligious. I stopped having them when I realized I have to earn the keys to my chains, and I had only two paths to choose from; either commit suicide, or take that one huge step towards living for me and only me.

My family has always been financially stable: I ate good food, slept in a warm bed, spent the summer holidays at the beach, ate ice-cream, and played in the neighborhood with the boys. My childhood was fine compared to my adulthood. You see, ever since my uterus started to bleed and my breast started to grow, my life started to change radically without even being asked. I needed to start learning how to be a lady, so my family prevented me from going out to play with the boys in the neighborhood. I was no longer allowed to go out except to go to school; you can imagine how hellish the holidays used to be. I could not receive a female friend at my place without having my mother eavesdropping on us. I could not pick up the phone to have a simple conversation with someone because all my family would be harassing me. The only boyfriends I could have were imaginary ones about whom I would write imaginary things in my diaries. Of course I had a few boyfriends in high school, but they were very short term ones because with my up-tight life style, I could not get out with them, call them or even text them. Hell, I could not even go out with female friends. They would even choose my friends for me. I used to be constantly terrorized. Even when I am home alone I would imagine my mom putting surveillance cameras to tap my phone calls. I know this sounds silly. It does sound silly to me now. But back then, it sounded very logical. I believed it. 
The terror escalated when my brother turned from my best friend into my biggest enemy. This transformation also happened when he hit puberty. Somehow, society explained to him that he needs to be a 'man'. And by 'man', they meant someone who is a macho, misogynistic being who constantly tries to fill in the gaps of his weak egoistic existence by unlawfully/wrongfully controlling his female counterparts to convert them into the slaves of the patriarchal dominion. 
Is this my fault? Am I the victim of the scars that these people left me for life? Or have I fallen victim to my own dark thoughts?

Thursday, December 7, 2017

The Story of a Blue Bird Called Molly- Page 4: about Depression.

My state of depression reaches its peak when I make expectations and build high hopes about something or somebody and end up feeling disappointed. All the meanings of life that I make up in my mind to convince myself to stay alive one more day crash into a billion pieces of meaninglessness. That is when I start imagining different scenarios of me taking my own life out of this miserable shit hole full of human bullshit. The human behavior/nature is what drives me the most depressed: the way humans treat each other. Lies. Deceit. Treason. Disloyalty. Ungratefulness. 

All these things become nonexistent when I feel euphoric. It feels good when I’m on the pills. It makes me feel numb and unaware of those things. And this is one of the reasons why I stopped taking my pills. They put me in a state of denial, and if there is one thing that got me here to begin with, it’s denial itself. Even when I broke free out of my previous patriarchal jail I was in a state of denial. I don’t remember how I did it. Sometimes, I forget that I did it.

I feel like killing myself 24 hours a day. The thought is there with every breath I take, every piece of food I put in my mouth, every panic attack I have and every sense of nausea I experience. I feel like throwing up all the time. I feel like I can hardly breathe. I feel like my body cannot tolerate these feelings anymore.

People envy me. I have a master’s degree, a respectable job, a loving boyfriend, good friends, and a decent family who finally accepted the fact that I am taking control of my life. I am stable financially and emotionally. I am free, brave and independent. I am all that. Sometimes more. Other times less. It depends on my mood swings. But I am indifferent to all that. I cannot savor anything. I am dead inside, and the only things that make me feel alive are the brief joys that love brings to my heart. Everything is temporary, except my state of depression.