Iridescent Spirits

Shelter of a constantly changing Soul.

Me is Strange…

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period or question mark?

In other words, panic disorder uncovered..

I realised that though I say my most important goal is to overcome my illness and to make people be more aware of mental illnesses I rarely speak about what I go through. Well, that’s not particularly true but stil…

Yep, my fantasy stories are about my feelings and experiences and yep I have loads to say but as you could see, there are times when I just disappear and nothing happens to my blog. At these times something inside me cracks.This is usually because I’m scared. Scared like hell. Really. Firstly, because I’m simply not good at speaking my mind. Or I should say, I’m too afraid to speak my mind. In order not to hurt others my words end up misunderstood as if I was speaking some alien language. My thoughts usually wander over several stuff and by the time I get to say them out loud or write them down, those prettily constructed lines in my head end up as a mass of incoherent and meaningless pile of words simply put together.

Also, there is that tipically inconfident way of thinking that if I say what’s on my mind then people won’t like me. But to be honest, I’ve already realised that being silent instead of exposing myself has more harmful effects. Silence can lead to ignorance pretty easily. Just think of the sky above us, if it’s clear and nice how many times do you look up and cherish what a great weather it is today? But when there’s a thunderstorm all of us hides inside their safe homes waiting for the storm to end. Maybe that’s why I like stormy nights, maybe I envy them..

Continuig the listing of my anxieties, there is also that subconscious self-sabotage thingie. That’s hellish a demon. Right when you get an awesome idea, the scars you’ve got throughout the years that had already passed by all of a sudden start to speak to you, telling you cannot do this, and there are so many people on this world why would you be the one who succeed? This is an awesome question, though there is no concrete answer for it. Just feelings. I could be satisfied with my job and the fact that I have a somewhat stable financial source. Additionally, of course, as soon as I leave for home at the end of day I can do whatever I want. There are no homeworks, or exams to study for, in my freetime I am perfectly free.  Yet, instead of doing nothing, for some inexplicable reason I insist on keep on blogging keep writing not only as a therapy. The strong feeling of getting somewhere, find my place in the world and something I love doing.

Also, not to mention that I’m a real introvert. I need time to open for people and while I’m at it, in the world of work (equals reality) I’m not that free to talk about my illness. That makes a huge wall between me and the people I’m surrounded with. Interestingly enough, when I tell someone about panic disorder I immediately open up as I don’t have anything left to hide. But until I have to act according to outer rules like answering an immediate ‘no’ to the question ‘Do you have any hidden illnesses?’ that thick wall around me remains solid and impervious. Tht’s why I sit separately in the canteen, that’s why people cannot find a mutual insterest with me immediately. They look at my exhausted, pale face, my sunken shoulders and their expressions turn into really careful and they speak to me as if it was hard to me to understand a simple sentence. They do this without thinking, I’m quite sure, but it still bothers me. Sometimes I think I was born to the wrong place but that’s the story of another post…

The girl has often been scolded by the grownups around her for saying what is in her mind. People have said that she does not distinguish between reality and her imagination. The shape and color of her thoughts seem to be very different from those of other people. She can’t understand what they consider so wrong about her. In any case, she had better not tell anyone about the Little People.

(Haruki Murakami, 1Q84 book two)

The windstorm of yesterday beheaded the rose that had just bloomed.

Me is strange

period or question mark?

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