A Moment of Self-Reflection
It took me some time to think of what I wanted to write about within the context of self-reflection. I’ve changed quite a bit, even over the course of the past year. For the better, though, I promise.
Out of all the subjects I could have shed light on, it came down to what I believe to be the most important, and what I could be completely honest about; the thing I feel I am supposed to share is my outlook on life. In short, I don’t hate it anymore. I’m not looking for a way out of living like I used to. I’d sit in sadness, macabre thoughts plaguing me. I felt so alienated and isolated. I wish mental health was more open for discussion so that the people who deal with depression or thoughts of suicide could feel less alone.
When I was fourteen, maybe fifteen, I had a cancer scare. For months I was on edge, scared at the thought of being riddled with a disease, but the half of me that wasn’t anxious was relieved. I saw it as a way out. I thought my prayers had been answered by some cruel deity that had made the mistake of putting me on this earth in the first place. I thought I’d be done with it all, and I was ready to be. But now? Now, I am looking for a way in. I want to stay alive.
All of my teenage years have been spent with a heaviness I am not yet rid of, and I may never be. Depression is not something you can just shake off, it stays with you. And along with the depression came suicidal thoughts. There wasn’t a day I didn’t think things would be better with me out of the way. From a very young age, I knew I was a burden. I knew that I wasn’t wanted. And it was hard to ignore the fact when I was constantly reminded of it.
I saw life as this awful event I was being forced to participate in, and I wanted no part of it. Nothing truly brought me joy, my smiles were always an attempt to appease the people around me. I found it very hard to smile most days. Sometimes, I could hardly speak. I’d go the whole day without really talking to anyone. I didn’t see why I should, and I didn’t feel well enough to do so.
I am not saying I’m all better now, or that the sky has turned blue and the sun shines brightly on me. No, things aren’t fixed. But now, I am wanting to stay alive. I can feel the sun peering at me from behind angry, dark clouds—warming me, beckoning me further into contentment. It says: keep going. And I will, because I realized life is not about being happy. I don’t have to be happy to be alive, I only have to do my best. What I hope to accomplish with my existence is moral goodness. I want to help people and I want to spread kindness where I can, alongside stomping out hatred where it’s burning. By striving for betterness in the world, I am bettering myself.
Now I am trying to hold onto everything, frantically grasping at straws that seem to slip through my fingers. It’s difficult, learning to let go of the things I am not ready to give up. I don’t want to end this chapter of my life. Not because it’s fantastic, but because my youth holds me. Comforts me, even. I’m not ready to grow up, I didn’t even want to turn eighteen. Mostly because it meant being “legal,” which riddled me with dread. Even though I am at the end of my childhood, I am not yet an adult. Though I know it isn’t, adulthood seems far away. I swear I’d give anything to be fifteen again.
I am far from happiness, but nearer to becoming content. I am alright with myself. No more picking out flaws in the mirror and stressing over the inability to control the way people feel about me because I cannot make myself be loved. I’ve known all my life that you can’t make someone love you, accept you, and I am recently coming to terms with the realization that I am often the one loving more, caring more than others could ever care for me. I have no desire to be disappointed, so I won’t place expectations on people. I won’t seek love where it isn’t meant to be given. If it isn’t for me, then I do not want it. Perhaps I am becoming at peace with myself, and with the realities of human connection.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I have days where I don’t want anything to do with anybody. Then I remind myself that it will eventually pass. I come back to myself and I desire company. I want to feel wanted, even if I’m not. I want to laugh at small things with others and I want to talk about topics that don’t necessarily need to be talked about, just for the sake of companionship and feeling human. Feeling ordinary, instead of like a hermit bent on avoiding all other living things. I still have days where I get tired of it all. Where I’m fed up and I cry, pound my fists, shake, struggle to breathe air into my lungs—but that’s okay.
To struggle is to live.
If everything were perfect, what would be the point? I need to be angry about the things that matter, I need to feel hurt so that the fire within me does not go out. The burning desire to strive for better things in the world ignites me. I see how beautiful people can be and I want to help them because my hope is to be kind in the face of cruelty. It’s difficult, I won’t lie. Even as I spout lines about compassion and hungering for justice, I face my own feelings of intense anger. They harden me, washing over me in waves of spite in retaliation to the arrogant and unkind, but what matters is that I don’t let them rule me.
Just as long as I am feeling, I am living.
I’ll take the pain over numbness any day.
My life has thrown many difficulties at me over these eighteen years, and I’m sure more will come. I will get knocked down, I will hurt, but I’ll get back up. My feet will stand firm for the things I believe in. No harm will come from my hands or pour from my lips. Why on earth would I want to hurt people when I could help them? All my life I’ll contend for better things and I’ll continue to grow. I learned that a person who does not evolve will never better themself.
My god, I hope I never become stagnant.
I want to live, so I’ll love with everything in me and feel it all. The ugly, the beautiful, the frightening, the heartbreaking— all of it is for me because I am human and I don’t have to be happy to be alive. I only have to feel.
Ian Pricer is a queer, 18-year-old, aspiring writer/poet. Her time is spent watching movies, writing, reading, and creating. Often found taking photos and planning personal projects, such as screenplays and books. She hopes to go on and develop a career in film, as she is absolutely in love with cinema and storytelling. You can find her on Instagram @sweetnuthn
This Article was edited by EIC Kailah Figueroa.
Copyedited by Tah Ai Jia.