Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Tied to a wheel,
fingers got to feel,
a tar-decayed smile.
It's been a while since I last posted and my last series of posts came relatively few and far between. It was intentional. It was a choice that I made not because I had nothing to say or to show but because, as I've said a number of times before, I don't want to cause any trouble.
But when you have things to say and bottle them up for weeks and weeks, they tend to find their own means of getting out. And last Wednesday, they did. I broke down. In front of my friends.
It had been a while now that I'd been thinking about consulting with someone who knows this business dealing with people's minds. But it had only become a concrete possibility around three weeks ago when we had to take Paul to the emergency room after band practice because he was having a panic attack. I'll tell that story some other time. Suffice it to say that the doctor advised him to see a psychiatrist to better understand what he's going through and work on it.
Jewel volunteered his sister. Now, I don't really know what the difference is between a psychiatrist and a clinical psychologist but Ate Neth is the latter. I won't go into specifics— she has a lengthy CV— but that was when I realised that, if ever I needed professional help, I can go to her first and she'd be able to point me to the right direction.
We spoke last night.
It was a long conversation the details of which I might write about in the future. What's important is that she doesn't believe that I'm suffering from depression (of the clinical sort) nor from something else that merits therapy— not for the moment. We'll speak again at some point.
But just as I said earlier, I've kept a lot of things bottled up and I told her as much. And she thinks that that is causing me a lot of anxiety and that is what I have to deal with. She understands that I am an artist by heart and expressing my experiences, memories, dreams, imagination is a big part of who I am. That, at some point, I was inspired by someone and that that inspiration must have somehow evolved into admiration. And the fact that I am wilfully suppressing the expression of that admiration is what is unhealthy— at least, for me.
Of course, there is a reason why I've suppressed myself. And that reason is my concern for the mental health of whom I admire and of those around us. But that long conversation has made me realise that that is not my responsibility. That I can only be responsible for my own mental health.
While I know the the purity of my intentions, I also have to accept that because other people have their own experiences, it's inevitable that some of them will see cruelty, barbarity, malice where there is none. But it's quite possible that a few will see all this for what it is.
I don't want to cause any trouble but trouble seems to have a way of always finding me. And I accept that now.