I’ve wanted to start a diary for a long time. The thing is, my life was so dull, I could never really think of anything to write about. I couldn’t have it be filled with entry’s like “woke up, ate grey porridge for breakfast, need better seed mix than chia. Went about my business, nothing interesting happened. Skipped lunch, ate dinner, watched t.v. for a while, and went to bed. The end.” It’s over before it begins. Who would want to read that? I don’t and I wrote it.
I guess that’s it though isn’t it? Sometimes, to some people, it can be hard to see the things in our live that make us special, all we see is the gross, grey porridge, or the boring mundane tasks of life, that everyone goes through. They’re not special, we’re not special, no matter how much we want to be.
I’m not really sure how to start, I want a few things off my chest but haven’t really any idea how to get them out. A diary should mean something, even if I’m the only one reading it. Something I could look back on and learn from. I suppose the only way to go about doing it, is to just, start.
I have, issues. I guess that would be the word I’d use. I’d fall into bouts of deep sadness and black moods, it can take forever to climb out of. I also have an issue with anger, not at anything in particular, and I wouldn’t fly off the handle and scream the head off of everyone, but it could be uncontrollable. I’d seclude myself most days, lying in bed, thinking it’d help, but really I think it only served to feed the habit.
Having these moments, they make me hate life. I can’t picture it ever getting better and wish only for it to not get any worse. Its suffocating sometimes, but I don’t know how to express it, or even if it’s worth expressing. How do you tell someone, I feel a bit sad sometimes? I don’t know, it seems so inconsequential to me. Like, who cares? It’s dumb, why bring it up, everyone struggles sometimes.
And that makes me hate even more. Why do I feel this way? Sure there may be reasons, but are they enough to explain it? Are they sufficient? To me… no. They’re pointless, worthless, and just stupid. Thus, hate. I hate myself for the pain. The only way for me to feel deserving of it, is to make it real; physical.
I would hurt myself. I’d take a knife, a scissors, or needles. Whatever could cause the most pain, and I would cut, or prick or tear at myself, until the pain I felt became real. Then I could safely say it meant something. I would have the scars to prove it actually existed.
It took a long time for people to notice. I’d been doing it for years before people began to see the scars, and ask about them. But no-one ever did anything. They’d talk about it, but nothing ever came of it. I guess, that was when I finally realised that the way I felt, physically or emotionally, didn’t mean anything to anyone. They really we’re wrapped up in their own lives just as the books said, too busy to see into the lives of others for too long. I suppose that made it better. A final affirmation, I don’t have to care about them either. Even if I may have wanted to.
I lived that way for a long time, trying to change as the years passed, so I wouldn’t be stuck like this. Trying to find that one thing that would change my life for the better. But no matter what I did, or who I did it with, I couldn’t. I couldn’t get out of my shell. I have this way I guess.
That was until, I was “dragged” along to take part in a sport I never thought I’d ever try. (MMA) Mixed martial arts, sure I watched it, I loved watching it, but taking part? For me, that’s like going from 0 to 100 miles an hours just thinking about it. There were a variety of classes, some whose names I’d heard, others I couldn’t even pronounce at the time. It was a class filled to the brim with gigantic men taught by an even bigger guy named Sebastian, and it sounded simply horrific. But, for some reason I didn’t hate it. The first class I took part in was (BJJ) Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, grappling. A real close quarters sport. Not my first pick for first time shell breaking but, what the hell. Why not?
There was something about it. Something different. When I took part, everything else sort of, melted away. It took all that was inside, and replaced it with, not nothing, it’s hard to explain. It’s like you’re alone in the moment, sure your training partner is there but it’s like they’re not, you’re completely focused on your task. Though awkward and clunky and desperately bad at everything I did, I didn’t feel shamed by it, as I usually would. I felt motivated to get it right.
That was the moment, that first day. I decided, to make more of an effort to be different. Not for everyone else, but for myself. It wasn’t going to be easy, but I was going to try.
Taking these classes didn’t stop the wanting to hurt myself though. Not at first. I struggled, and failed and struggled some more. I wanted to get good too fast, and this led to frustration. After each class I would brood over my inability to connect to dots, to master the technique and wanted to take it out on myself. But I didn’t, I couldn’t, not after getting this far. Instead I started doing things like this. Writing it down, working it out. Taking it slower, as though every day is my first day all over again. Learn the steps, practice them, and repeat them. That’s all I have to do.
That definitely makes things easier, you don’t have to think about it, you just do it. It helped a lot in my day-to-day life, made me more accepting. Taking those initial steps, getting rid of the thing I felt held me back most, opened up the world to me, a whole new realm of possibility. It left me confident enough to go out and try other things. To try figure out what I wanted to do, you know since I was still alive and kind of had to do something. I’m still not exactly sure what that is yet, but I have time, and I’m confident that eventually, I’ll figure it out.