For the past few months, I’ve found myself struggling; spiraling into a strange madness from which I could not escape. Everything seemed to be falling apart at the seams, my reality unraveling before me like a delicate fabric. I could handle the stress. In fact, I could handle most out what caused the out of control spinning. But I could not handle the thought that I had lost my imagination.
You see, my mind is something I have always valued, even when it seems broken or betrays me at the worst of times. But after so long of falling, I needed help to find my way back out again. The inner voice that guides my words was silenced, the pictures I paint with my words seemed foreign. I had the desire to create, but only the ability to destroy. The whirlwind was merciless. My mind, my imagination, have always been my coping mechanism for as long as I can remember.
As a child when things were difficult, I would escape to my alternate reality. The adult I was did the same. There, I ruled my lands. Nothing happened without my say so. I constructed ideal situations and gave them the perfect outcome in my perspective, or I took events that had already transpired and said what I wished I had said. I dreamed of a better world, a better life.
I took that gift for granted, and only when it seemed to be hiding did I truly understand the weight of what I had. An extraordinary mind filled with wonder that I needed to capture.
The spiralling took it away, bashed and battered it before hiding it beyond my grasp, replacing it with insignificant problems that only aided my downfall.
I sought help from a naturopath. It is most unfortunate that she cared more for my money than she did my mental health, for had she put forth the effort, she could have claimed such an epiphany for her own personal portfolio. What a success story she could have told. Instead, I’ve ripped such a glory from her, and I cannot tell you the immense joy I feel from that. Rather the glory is to be given to a dear friend of mine.
The advice he gave I shall pass on to you, my readers. It seems so very simple, yet it took hearing it at just the right time for it to finally make sense.
Be the best you that you can be. Do everything to the best of your ability, and fuck what everyone else thinks. You have to live with you more than anyone else does. He also told me to write. Write for me and for no one else. Stop living in the world of digital applause and Facebook likes, superficial shit. Write for yourself, and as you find your voice, that is when the applause will matter. It’s only real if you are real.
We live in a world where our lives are dictated by numbers. Your intelligence is measured by a score on a test, or a grade on a paper. Your worth is measured by your bank account. Your beauty is decided by what size your jeans are, or what the scale reads. And when you become so wrapped up in these numbers, you tend to forget why you’re here. Why you’re doing what you’re doing, and why you live doing it. For me, the number of viewers my blog received was important. I would write, and I would try to write well, only to see low numbers. It discouraged me, so I tried to change me. Instead of writing for myself, I tried to cripple myself in order to better myself. So let me pass on a bit of advice to you. You are more than a number.
You are more than the grade. You’re more than the money you make. You’re more than the number of hits on a blog. You are important. In the words of my friend, I’ll reiterate.
Be the best you that you can be.