I hate myself, at the worst of times. At the best, I live with myself, the way, in my head, that one might live with a despicable housemate you wouldn’t mind gone.
It’s sort of terrifying–the way that I’ve found myself suddenly crying and blowing up at people, overreacting and trying to fix it post situation. Now that I’m back at my parents’ with access to a car, it’s far harder to justify not wanting to go out to meet people, or finding ways to not go to that meeting with club members, or, once I’m out, to go back home and face the pressing expectations.
I can feel myself caring less. It’s hard to care when you don’t really see a future beyond perhaps the next few months. Tbh, I think I’ve been spiraling down this rabbit hole for a long time now, but it’s just that recently there’s been less in my life to make up for the pit in my stomach. It got worse after I started adjudicating in debates, honestly, that the thoughts of how I’m ruining other people really started popping up. Plus, not running for elections for the new committee in the club I was in, where I had extensive responsibilities for running tournaments and affecting processes and dialogues to a large extent made me feel like I was losing control.
So I’ve been systematically cutting away things. Avenues that make me feel like I was losing my grip– group chats for the club exec I was no longer part of where the new committee continued to discuss, I exited with well wishes. Friends that never really saw me I cut down my exposure to. My parents I can’t do anything about, even though they’re more than half the reason why I’ve grown up plagued by low self-esteem and anxiety, and a continuous source of exacerbation to the devaluation of my self in relation to other people. Their hearts are in the right place, but somehow… I’m glad that I have this respite. Maybe someday when I die, this can be a marker for someone as to how I lived.