As much as I’d like to gather my bearings to start a letter on a light note and be cheerful about what’s been going on lately, I’m afraid I will have to disappoint you and say: I’ve had a pretty shitty and irrevocably fucked up existence, since you’ve last looked upon this blog. I don’t expect you to agree with me or even venture an opinion, but this is the only place where I can vent those feelings, I can’t shout out into the world. As for you, please don’t judge me, because I know that at any point I can stop it, but it seems that I’m a self made mental masochist who dwells within the pain of the past, present and very soon an obscure and undoubtedly horrible near future.
Reader, the thing is I’m tired, exhausted and completely out of my fucking mind. I can’t get myself to write this properly, my fingertips are cold and my heart is racing and I’m nervous, constantly on the edge of a breakdown. The only thing for me to do is scream internally, hoping that someone in outer space, could pick up my spiritual frequencies and log it into a spacial notebook, that will state that Martha Welles from planet Earth is going insane and that soon, they will send somebody down here to pick me up so they can analyze what’s wrong. That’s how bad it is and how horrific it will be in a few months.
I’ve tried everything in my power to distract my emotional torment, however I haven’t dabble into the world of pharmaceuticals, because we all know that shit’s just going to enhance the problem. by numbing the few braincells I possess to even drink a glass of water every morning before starting my roller coaster of a day.
Perhaps, I haven’t gone to all paces to seek for help and by all means do contribute with a positive thought on this one for me: I’m addicted to misery and I’m not alone.
Sometimes I scroll through pages of information and find people like myself, trapped in a vortex of confusion and a sudden splash of frantic creativity, that couldn’t possibly be channeled through the windows of my eyes and hands and kick me right in the butt, so I can come up with some sort of art form that will liberate my demons and talents altogether. I have cried, pumped my fist into the air wondering the ultimate bullshit existentialist question of all: Why me?, I have overworked myself with so much clutter in terms of work and exercise and excessive chain smoking that, it could potentially exterminate the very last of my breath as soon as I try to run up the stairs. I’ve spoken to my GP and subsequently sought for group sessions where you try and dump all of your shit on a stranger’s lap, as I’ve desperately stared into a mental blank wall in my head when I try and comprehend meditation through yoga.
Nonetheless, here I am, going back to a habit that used to put me at ease, writing. Or at least trying to form sentences that make sense so you could try and read it for me and to yourself, to somehow then put an end to this emotional shit hole that I’m in at the moment. I’m not a writer by all means, but I know I can form such sentences, I know I can speak better than those who claim to have writer’s block and not sound as cunty and self absorbed as they are, because frankly this wreckage of an existence that is called life, it’s not a fucking writer’s block Saturday night case. It’s simply and plainly a life falling apart into tiny pieces. What to do with those pieces I wonder? How should I put them back together? Perhaps, I should have been a mental project all along and apply all of my energy into science books and dissertations, I assure you there’s plenty of room for me there, not because I’m intelligent or overly confident, but as a potential case myself, I would be the perfect patient no. TNT5467* to any nutcase with a scrub, deemed professional enough to probe into the realms of the assholeness of my mind and determine the cause of my certain future death. Or at least, they can try and do so.
You see, I’ve always known I wasn’t fit to do many things, but I knew that purpose is something that’s born from desire and determination. As babies, we are incomprehensible, but fascinating beings described as a tabula rasa . Sounds awesome right? It means that anything goes, we are born good babies, good beings, we are the Possible, the future. We also represent an argument for the unknown and evolution itself as many question it, is embedded in our DNA and history, whatever your beliefs and views of the world are, we are born to extend our capabilities and develop all sorts of experiments and live through the results of that, as well as watch ourselves make mistakes and really fuck up from time to time. That’s what humans are for, to lead, to rule, but also to fail and lose in the battlefield. As of now, I’ve had paused to talk to my boyfriend about the rut that’s killing the vibrancy and expectations of that very purpose I was explaining just a few sentences ago. When I looked to him in the eye, after what seemed to be a really long conversation, the vibes between us are a bit surreal and unsettling. He didn’t know that such things were happening to me and that I could be capable of containing so much and in such little space in my brain. He didn’t know the suffering and he’s expressed he’s baffled, as he’s thought everything looked and felt fine. But, sadly, things aren’t fine with me and haven’t been for a while and to my dismay, I won’t be able to finish this text properly.
I will have to treat this Dear Reader text as an on going record of perfectly unbalanced situations coming somehow together through the windmills of the internet and the time given for me to come out with reason and doubt , cohesively. Please, I ask you to be patient because easy was never a word or an act that occurs in my daily turmoil, I ask you to bring your hands together and slow applause me for the teeny balls I grew to even say this. It will not make me feel better, but at least, it will give me hope to continue to understand what’s wrong. This is not a drill, reader, neither a suicide attempt or a matter of emergency. It is simply the fact, that somehow, I am coming undone, but would like to avoid to wither away and disappear. After all, I’m only fucking human, right?
Words by Martha Welles
* TNT5467 is an imaginary case number I’ve given to myself given the opportunity to be a case study. Any takers?