Demons

Ever since I can recall my academic life, from school to university, I have been an extremely worried student. I have constantly been of the opinion that I am not doing well and that I am only destined for doom and nothing less. That is not exactly a wonderful feeling and while I never did cherish those memories where I have vomited or cried or spent hours freaking out about everything under the sun, I also learnt to kind of suck it up and deal with it. I would get extremely stressed about many things, sometimes very much legitimate things, deserving things. I would deserve the most scathing comments I could inflict on myself and inflict them I did with a sadistic pleasure that I still find.

I never had a choice, I had the undeniable pleasure of being a disappointment many a time and being an appreciated success equal times. College taxonomies implore me to define myself in some way, ways that are simultaneously alien to me as they are relatable. I feel like I am an average student at best alongside times when I feel like I am intelligible one (not intelligent, mind you). Actually, that is a lie, I have felt like an intelligent student too at times, especially during English classes in school. At university, I felt intelligent in certain classes that have gone so far away into the horizon that talking about them feels eerily like an exercise in nostalgia. Let me rather not.

I think part of the problem comes from a place of deep-rooted anxiety and insecurity, and dare I say it, hatred and prejudice directed towards myself. That is right, I probably hate myself, for a lot of things, the least damaging of all being my own perceived mediocrity. Just saying it out loud makes me feel like I am creating unnecessary drama, creating a space that legitimises my own demons, just so that I can bask in the comfort of my own misery. It is convoluted, extremely so but the fact is, I don’t think I can say any of it without being reminded of the pervertedness of my own mind. It makes me hate it all even more and wish desperately that I didn’t have my mind, that I (this wonderfully constructed self-identity that somehow is intrinsically connected to my essence) didn’t exist. I don’t think I have, ever in my life, despite a lot of issues and problems, ever wished that I didn’t exist. But recently, it is a thought that comes back again and again, to make me wonder what it is about my existence that I cherish enough (turns out, the answer is nothing, really).

Things I cherish don’t cherish me back the same way, and well, I might wax lyrical about having no expectations but when it came to my own doorstep, I was left extremely disappointed and hated everything (enough to state that I shall cherish those same things no longer). I am easily emotional, a fact that I rue to no end (of course, no one likes to associate themselves with someone who is so prone to tears all the time like I am!). I have never felt quite so emotional as I do these days, tears seem quite ready to flow out at any point of time. Overwhelmed is probably the right term to use, I am most definitely, completely overwhelmed and right now, it is out of my hands that the only thing I can do is shed tears of helplessness. And what a wonderful job I am doing of that, perhaps the best job I have done so far. It is going to turn out alright right?

And that’s my memory for the day.