November 19th, 2012.
I am twenty-four years of age, have accomplished next to nothing in my life and find myself powerless to face the realities of the world outside my bedroom without the aid of a plethora of medically-prescribed anti-depressant and anti-psychotic medications. This is not the life I envisioned for myself as a youth but, then, how many can honestly say they spent their childhood expecting to be diagnosed with a mental illness?
I feel like I've been chasing rabbits.
Running so fast, so far, tumbling down the rabbit-hole with no idea why and no real plan as to what I'll do when I hit the ground. The first nineteen years of my life were about survival. It didn't matter what happened, where I was or who I was with as long as I was alive. Things were simple back then, not necessarily easy but far from complicated.
I had only two primary concerns - shelter and sustenance.
Now there are so many options. To socialise or remain isolated? To seek help or bottle everything up inside and take the world down with me when it all gets too much to handle? What can I do for a living? Who do I want to be? There's no end to the possibilities and though once the idea of such freedom might have excited me, today it is terrifying. Debilitating. Maddening even.
I find difficulty in even the most mundane of decisions, such as what to have for dinner or where to go on the weekend. My memory is shot. I forget names, places, events and appointments. Everything I do has to be written somewhere - carefully planned with alarms set in place as to keep me on time and on track - lest I become a complete and utter wreck amidst the chaos of it all or, rather, more of a wreck than I usually am.
People who can comprehend and accept who and what I am are few and far between. They do exist though. I've been fortunate enough to befriend some, and fortunate in that I am able to appreciate how very rare and precious they truly are - even when they themselves cannot. I find solace in the openly imperfect, those who are quite content in that they will never become whatever it is that the bulk of society believes they ought to be and those who, whilst not striving for perfection, push on in the hopes of improvement and/or change.
I take solace in the creative crowd. I adore the writers, poets, artists and the dreamers of the world because only they have some hope of seeing the world surrounding as I see it. Only they could see counting the shades of green in one tree or creating fictional back-stories for unsuspecting bystanders as a productive use of one's time.
Only they can understand the frustration and the joy to be found in pursuing unrealistic endeavours with boundless enthusiasm and no real expectation of success.
Chasing rabbits.
But I fear that this is it, this is the point in my life in which I must stop simply chasing rabbits and aim to catch one - claim one as my own - before I'm too old to appreciate the beauty in the chase and grow bitter, before I learn to resent such fanciful and fruitless endeavours. Many claim it will never happen to them, that they'll never lose that spark - that magic - but I'm not willing to sit back and risk losing everything about me that makes me the person I am today.
I don't want to ever be boring or, worse, normal.
So this is me, hanging by a thread and struggling to keep myself sane. This is me trying to get my life back on track and actively start living the life I want to be living and succeeding in spite of my self-doubt. This is my record of a life that means very little in the larger scheme of things, that is insignificant to the world surrounding but precious enough for me to have allowed it to continue for as long as it has.
This is me chasing rabbits.