Oftentimes when I reflect on the past year, I allow in my arsenal two things: a mind map, and an optimism to search for bright spots. For last 2018, both were unnecessary, because as it turns out, some years are just worse off than others. Rudimentarily, there were good times: falling in love and graduating (and the Bar) are two that stand out most. More complex than that, however, are the not-so-good: oftener panic attacks, self-harm, questioning my feelings, eating disorders, the lot.
On the grander scheme of things, well, we all know how worse it’s become.
I haven’t written in a while, and it honestly bugs me to no end that I’m writing in such a jaded, cynical state. But sometimes, the only thing that propels us to do the work is to feel the things, and what I feel right now is a lot of emptiness. I’m looking anew for a therapist (because sometimes you’re just not okay, even if the last time you felt not okay at this magnitude was half a decade ago) and hopefully I’m set right again, but until then, I will write (or, perhaps more probably, will not write), I will try to reignite my sense of feeling, and will try to be okay.
And if no one else reads this but me in one year, then self, I hope you’ve gotten better. I don’t love you now, but perhaps you will love yourself in 2020.
Of perpetual finds 