Flatter than a pancake

Do you know what, I actually don’t want to die. I do want to live. But, I want to live “averagely.” I do want to feel but I want to feel some sort of normality- however wide the spectrum. I want to feel the variety of emotions, the peaks and the troughs of life, but not to an intensity that knocks me over.

I want to feel boredom, normal boredom and begrudgingly do a task without it influencing my waning desire to be alive.

I want to lose patience and feel anger over something trivial, in a way where I kick off, maybe throw whatever it is that’s irritating me on the floor but laugh at my ridiculousness and resume the task anyway. Not to the point where it makes me question my worth as a human being.

I want to feel worried and only somewhat bothered by things. Preoccupied in a way that doesn’t fill me with painful dread, anxiety I can feel churning in my stomach. I want to feel butterflies, normal butterflies, not blood-sucking leeches that make me want to hide.

I want to experience sadness that maybe makes me shed a tear or two instead of the utter hopelessness that consumes my entire headspace and leaves room for nothing else.

I want to be able to tolerate aloneness and peaceful silence without it deafening me.

I want to be able to just get on with things, even if only out of obligation, because I have a bill to pay, a job to do, an exam to pass, a dog to feed… etc. Even if I can’t be bothered, I want to experience rolling my eyes and just doing it because I have to rather than the mere thought of all these tasks and responsibilities rendering me immobile.

I want to listen when people talk to me, and take in what they are saying without letting it wash over and bounce off me because my mind is already overflowing. I want to be able to laugh with them, tut and gasp appropriately at their stories. I don’t want to be excruciatingly jealous that somehow, they can tolerate these issues they have and don’t have a broken brain that uses it as proof of their utterly useless existence.

I want to be able to dream with excited apprehension about having a family and not be, instead, getting more and more convinced that I actually won’t be able to- it wouldn’t be fair. How could I possibly bring children into a world that I don’t even want to be a part of myself, how could I teach children to be happy in a world that I don’t even like?

How could I encourage them to love themselves for who they are when I can’t even stand myself?

I wish I could simply roll my eyes for my school days, lament it with a typical rose-tinted, bitter-but-sweet nostalgia that is an accepted, necessary part of “adulthood” and then carry on with my day. I wish I could talk about those days without it making my skin itch with regret, my tongue taste sour from the tears I’m trying to fight as I get stuck in an impossible web of “what-ifs.”

I wish I could at least try and help myself. To at least attempt to put in place the multitude of things I could be doing to improve my totally flatter-than-even-a-pancake of a mood. I wish I could try to forge a healthy, functional relationship with food, exercise more- maybe try mindfulness, meditation, or whatever else is en vogue.

I want to feel hunger, genuine hunger and not a craving for rubbish that falsely promises to extinguish the fire in my head. I want to be able to just eat lunch like a human being who needs the fuel to get from A to B instead of putting all my might into punishing myself by overeating or starving so that I feel something other than hell.

I tell you what I really want to feel… I want to just feel O.K, neutral, all right, not bad, distinctly average, without it being apathetic resignation that this is just the way it is. Rather than accepting that I am just a fundamentally “broken” human being, I want to find the feisty fire that I know exists in me somewhere and change the status quo.

Sad would do, preoccupied would do, tired would do, bored would do, boring would do, medif**kingocre would do.

Anything at all, but this.

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