The Hidden Toxin ✔(#6 in the Our Side of The Dice Series)

|| Author's Notes 6: Insecurities Pt 2, The Travel Blogger||

Judging from the title of this installment, I guess you may have been slightly surprised or confused. You were probably expecting some progress since, in the last installment of the author's note, I realized that I'd been lying to myself all along.

But frankly, I didn't figure things out that quickly.

And like I've said before, I'm not writing these authors' notes to figure things out as life isn't always about figuring things out. I just want to show you how deep my pain was, bare out every detail and explain how profound my insecurities were and how they shaped my thinking and behavior towards life. I'm not writing to give a happy or satisfying ending.

This is just documentation — a continuous draft of my walk through life and realizations that shook the core of my mentality. This is not a compilation of an expected end.

With that being said, let's dive right into the second segment of my aims of being an "Instagram Influencer."

So while I was obsessed with being an inspiration on social media, while I was usually waiting for something to happen to me so I could tell the world about it (without first trying to process what had happened), I realized that I wanted to go back to India — the country I had my surgery in 2013.

Back then, when I traveled with my father, I was only twelve years old. I had zero online presence and didn't own a phone (like most Nigerian twelve-year-olds). Hence I couldn't document or take pictures of anything I found to be beautiful in India.

But as years rolled by, I owned a phone and an Instagram account — an account I used to create a false sense of confidence for myself. I wanted to go back to India for another surgery just so I could take videos of every single thing — of my hospital ward, the day of my surgery... Everything. Often, I dreamt of the comments I was going to get, the sympathy that such a video would garner if I posted it on my Instagram.

Countlessly, I imagined the clout I was going to get. With my overactive imagination, I could intricately picture how I was going make a film myself in my hospital ward — in blue robes and drips flowing into my palms and telling thousands of my followers on a live video that I would be going for my surgery soon in a few minutes. I could visualize the millions of hearts that would be floating all over my phone screen.

Truthfully, I wanted the attention: the pity, the sympathy, the heart emojis. The constant thought of it gave me lots of serotonin.

Later on, I realized that constantly yearning for this second chance also made me see how badly in need I was of a miracle. Imagine having the kind of legs I'd always dreamed about after a life-changing surgery and having to share my testimony with the whole world. Clout and love emojis aside. It gave me a heartwarming feeling whenever I tried to comprehend that moment.

So for a long while, I hoped at various intervals for the miracle. The hope was somewhat vain, though, because the physical condition around me didn't make that imaginary trip to India something that could happen in real life. I didn't even see a slight possibility.

My parents had to focus on other things. They had school fees to pay — mine, my sister's, and my brother's. Their priorities changed, and the opportunity to travel for another surgery to India didn't seem likely. There were a few times when my dad would take a video footage of me walking and send it to a friend — to see what they could do to help — in terms of connecting me to a good doctor abroad.

And while that might have worked to some extent, I remained in Nigeria — meaning that the little efforts that my Dad invested into trying to get me another surgery didn't go far.

My mum had me in mind too. There were a few times when she'd talk about going to a party with hopes of connecting with a wealthy person so she could table my case and get some money. My parents cared. They still do, but they had to focus on the more urgent things.

And I understood.

I didn't even have a choice but to understand. Going to school was more important, and I knew very well about the plummeting economy of Nigeria and how hard it was to make money. I mean, it's already hard to make money, but Nigeria makes things two times tougher than they should be. So they had to tender to more pressing things with the money they were earning.

Hence, like a burning candlelight blown out by a strong wind, my hope faded away eventually. Even my prayers for traveling for another surgery always sounded like gibberish in my ear. I couldn't be the travel blogger I always fantasized about; there was no way I could film myself in a hospital ward in New Delhi. None of that.

And I was back to square one — nonchalance and numbness.

The only difference this time was my desire for wanting to be an inspiration on social media. And even that was rooted deeply in the numbness I'd felt for years. A numbness that I didn't know had hosted all of my fears and insecurities.