Reading, Writing, Existing.

PREFACE.

This isn't necessarily a book to be read. More like a data entry, except the data material is my thoughts and emotions. I'll explain why.

I read books to fill the quiet. Not quiet as in, the lack of background noises like the television or radio, nor the silence that fills and empty room. I mean the quiet within my mind. It's that kind of silence which is consuming. If I have nothing planned for the day, I sit and stare. Where do I stare? What am I looking at? What am I looking for? I haven't got an answer yet. There is an airiness in my mind, I feel light and unattached. Like when a child lets go of a helium balloon and it floats upwards into the sky, to which the child, seems like an infinite amount of time.

There is no diagnosis for my dissociative habit, I don't think it is something serious. I think people zone out every now and then, how we let our eyes relax and we find ourselves sitting cross-eyed, wide-eyed, for an unknown amount of time before someone snaps or claps us back to reality. I simply, zone out. I let myself be absently taken by the quiet, relaxing my eyes, my mind and body. It's these moments where my mind is empty, no single thought approaches my cortexes. It's also often these moments spent in the quiet of the day, by myself, absorbed as if time feeds off my presence but not my consciousness. I will often work six-day work weeks, where I am forced to participate in real life, I will have no time to gaze through the void of nothingness. On my one day off, I will wash my work uniform, ready for another week of six days on, one day off. I know washing doesn't take up my whole day, other times I will make time to see friends, but it doesn't take long for my social battery to be almost drained. When I get home, I flop into bed and read until I fall asleep, not waking until it's a socially unreasonable time of night to eat dinner. I will eat anyway though.

I feel different at night than I do during the day. I haven't figured out why yet. When I lay in the dark, I suddenly feel wide awake. My mind fleeting, leading away from me; when I try to catch up, I find myself distracted. I often hear things, in my mind, not auditory and not hallucinogenic, at least I don't think. I hear things inside me, things no one else can hear, voices, sounds, laughter. I have to think, who is that? Then the voice stops, like it has been caught creeping out of the shadows, caught under a security light in an abandoned mall and all alarms have been set off. I struggle to get to sleep. Then during the day, I struggle to stay awake. I wonder why this is. I find it very exhausting.

I started reading again six months ago. When I say 'again', I meant the last time I properly read books was when I was in high school. I read so many books during lunch period, 'The Catcher In The Rye', 'The Book Thief', 'Traveler', 'Just Cause', 'Cujo' and many more. Listen, I had no friends during my senior year, it was a new school and I had high social anxiety. I stopped when I found a group of friends and met my now boyfriend of six years.

About a year ago, I had to say goodbye to a beloved pet. A little mouse named Bubble. I loved her with all my heart. Correction, love. She is gone now and there isn't a day that goes by where I feel flooded with grief, guilt and regret. I can't go into it right now, my mind is too fragile about it, but I am seeing someone to help me with that. Though something so small and common, I can't help but feel so in love and so attached. I miss her dearly. Everyday. Right now I am reading a book called 'The Anatomy of Grief' by Dorothy P. Holinger, a phycologist who specialised in research of the human brain during her clinical work. I am only in the introduction section of the book and I felt too fragile to continue reading before work. I couldn't show up red-eyed and teary. There will be a review about this book once I finish.

I fill my time with reading books so I am not sitting absent minded on the couch staring out the window, feeling myself get cold by the breeze from the balcony screen door that I keep open for my cat. He loves to feel the breeze on his tiny wet, pink nose. I fill my time with reading so that when I spend the entire day in bed instead of cleaning or cooking or running errands or showering, I feel less guilty because then I can say "At least I didn't spend the entire day scrolling on TikTok or Instagram", which I have most definitely done.

After Bubble passed, I became swallowed in a pit of depression and meaninglessness. My days became hollow and stretched out. I lost all motivation to do the things I love, I stopped painting, watching movies, watering my plants and showering became so hard. I sit on the tiles under the shower head and let the water pour over me. Washing over my body, the faucet turned all the way to scalding temperature. I let it burn me raw, steam surging off my skin, in hopes that I can melt out of existence, down the drain and be nothing but sewerage.

I can't help but think, maybe now I am reading more like I was in high school, because my depressive mood has interrupted my social life. I stopped talking and hanging out with those I would normally love to connect with. Or at least I stopped initiating it. I am trying to get back on track, but I feel so numb that I can't hold an exciting conversation. I fear people will be bored of me pretty quickly. I don't do anything do I? I read, I stare, I sleep.

I used to have such a vibrant garden, filled with lavender, geraniums and snap dragons I got for free at a Halloween vegan festival which I went to with my friend, she's not in the country anymore. I miss her too. My garden helped me with my initial grieving. I'd kept a promise to Bubble that I would keep my balcony full of colour and life, so she can look down from the clouds and see the beauty that I had grown myself. But the grief became complex and overgrown, ironically, overthrown in my mind like a garden filled with weeds left untamed. I couldn't get out of bed, I became lethargic and drowsy, I started sleeping for hours, staying awake became an almost impossible task.

When I get overwhelming thoughts at night, I read to calm the noise. It's strange how during the day I hear nothing but silence and during the night, my mind is ravenous for stimulation. Sometimes it's conversations I have had or overheard during the day, or it's anticipation about what tomorrow might bring, sometimes I remember things from ages ago that makes no sense to resurface. This is how I found myself the other night staring at google reviews for a café I had a bad experience at one year ago, I found myself feeling enraged that I never said anything to stand up for myself. Or maybe that I didn't say anything to make the waiter feel regretful and hurt by how he made me feel, which incidentally was also, regretful and hurt. I didn't post anything, I thought it would be pointless and quite stupid to post a one star review of a bad experience that happened a year ago. What good would it do now? The worker might not even work there anymore. Why did I do that though? Why did my mind take me there? Why did I feel so irrationally angry in that moment? So angry I wanted to destroy this waiters credibility and make him feel embarrassed and ashamed. I am not that sort of person. Maybe I was just upset I was restlessly awake at 3:00am

Sometimes I 'hear', as in, internally, sounds that are not mine. Voices, laughter. It bothers me, I haven't mentioned it to anyone because it sounds like I'm crazy, right? I want to be raw with this book/blog. I want to express my emotions in all its ugliness. I want people to feel that it's okay if they can relate, and if they can't then that is okay too. It gives us something to be mindful of, that people always have their own personal demons and people do things to keep those demons in order. I like to read. I like to write and I like to paint. Though I haven't had any energy to get out of bed and paint, but one day I will like to paint again, just like I used to.

I want to clarify that the book reviews I write will contain spoilers. If you would like to read the book for yourself, I recommend skipping the chapter. Also, you don't have to read this. I'm no credited author, nor am I that excelled in grammar and punctuation. So I do apologise.

Anyway, for now, I am going back to bed.