Yet I can’t help what and how I feel.
The debilitating sense of hopelessness and helplessness seeing the numbers registering on the weighing scale every morning. It’s an obsession. It’s enslaving me to it. And I can’t break out of it, feeling relieved and comforted only when the number is low and secretly happy when it reduces to a new low; in stark contrast, flying into an anxious muttering and hot tears forming uncontrollably when the number creeps or shoots up.
What is this we are dealing with?
When will we see its end?
When will the shackles be loosened and liberated for good?
I’m tired, I really am.
Adding on to the incapacitating sense of worthlessness, the aimless drifting in life from year to year, engaged in jobs that are inconsequential and that do not seem to really add any value to anyone or anywhere, what some people sneer at and deride as fluff, useless and pointless “work”.
There are lots of literature discussing and advising on how to have a life that is fulfilling, and how to make even the most mundane and invisible job become purposeful. It’s all in the perspective and how we make it out to be, they say, but that applies for those with a healthy and strong mental state, no?
What about those who constantly struggle within themselves, trying to accept that their existence actually serves a purpose, and that they are actually equipped with some useful traits that can be beneficial to at least another person? How do these people first climb out of the deep, dark rabbit role before they even begin to embrace a job and find a greater purpose and meaning in it to seek fulfillment?
Sleepless nights. When the world snoozes in deep slumber with the night reaching its darkest watch, I toss and turn, unable to fall back to sleep after only a measly 4 hours. It affected how the day went, floating like a zombie listlessly and weakly. Finally the cloak of night has descended again; perhaps tonight the fatigue brought forward from last night can put me through a longer and more restful sleep.