It was exactly a year ago when I had seriously considered meeting a therapist. A month away from turning 18, I was the cliché emotional mess of an average teenager who loved to believe that he was a special snow flake. I was drowned in self-pity and struggling in a sea of insecurities like every other teenager. I still had the courage to believe there was some amount of special in me but much too often doubts would creep up about my own self-worth. I never really met a therapist but found a medium to lay bare my raw emotions.
I have always suffered from a terribly low self-esteem. I have had many friends over times that have been kind enough to hear me out and let me vent myself out to them. But my inconsistent self-esteem has made sure that all my friendships based on trust and affection has been broken. You know you suffer from really low self-esteem when you think nervously about whether your friend is interested in hearing you out or when you feel apologetic about writing yet another post about depression. Your mind is constantly saying to you “What makes you think they’re even interested?”. Writing allows me to break free from the shackles of low self-esteem and showcase my true inner self without the constant pecking from my brain about not being good enough. When I read articles and poems written by me, I always feel it is me exploring my flaws and gaining a therapeutic release from them.
Since childhood if there is one thing about my life that I would like to change it is the fact that I have never been able to unleash myself. I have always felt like a wild animal tied to a chain and every time I try to escape, the leash tightens around my neck. I have suffered too long from this suffocation. I have had too many moments of suppressed anger. I have had too many internal battles trying to decide whether I should give in to a crowd that I am a complete stranger to, or shoot my middle finger to the sky and be the rebel I have always dreamt of being.
Writing gives me that canvas I so long for to let out the bottled up shit inside me. It is supreme catharsis for me. It’s where I am the king and the lone warrior fighting imaginary battles that I regret not having fought, it’s where the bloodlust takes over and I reveal the beast of carnage that has always resided in me. Writing gives me the freedom to not care about damaging any reputation. It opens the gateway to my dream world, where I live as I please with no expectations, or the baggage of guilt, of misunderstanding and disappointments. It’s the world where I no longer have to prove myself as being ‘up-to-the-standards’ of monkeys who have no significance whatsoever in my life. Heck, it’s the world where stupidity is condemned and hypocrites are slaughtered.
As a child I always preferred to play by myself. I loved being alone and played my own little games, I would fantasize I were a king or an actor of a film or a singer in a huge concert. As an adult, writing gives me the license to be what I want to be. I, as a writer, am a creator and puppeteer of whatever I wish to create. It might be a gothic king or a dark warlord; I play the master and not a mediocre student with subdued flamboyance. The game is mine and I rule this playground.
I have always wished to be exiled from this world and spend a day alone, by myself and left with my own thoughts. I would love to sit and contemplate and jot down my thoughts no matter how dark, vulgar or disturbing they turn out to be. Without having realised it, I believe writing has gotten me close to fulfilling that fantasy because when I sit to write a poem or an essay I lose myself into my own mental space and my physical being becomes irrelevant. It is a meditation of sorts, or maybe a spiritual journey but it is not guided by norms created by stupid conformists. I float silently in that mental space, surrounded by an infinite dreamy visuals and the peace I have always longed for.