I am writing this journal in the hope that it will act as a pressure valve. I feel like, if I don’t say these things, my chest will burst open. The fact is, as Blindy, there are only Art, joy and no problems at all. But I’m not only the artist. The artist is just a part of me, and, as a whole, I’m being suffocated by my own life. I’m broken. Badly. Crestfallenness is a constant shadow in my days. I feel like a stick of almost-dry wood being bent. I can hear my fibers tearing apart. Cracking noises coming from inside and I know, if it don’t stop, soon I’ll snap. Again.
I’ve felt in the darkness once before, a few months after my father’s funeral. Those were the worst days of my life. I even had to take a strong medicine. I still am taking it. It hurts, you know? I say, the meds, they are made to go into the brain, fix what is wrong by putting the dirt under the carpet, but you can’t put meds inside the brain, and they hurt the rest of your body. Awful. And if I forget to take’em just once, I have to pass by that pain again. Right now I can feel the bones inside my fingers, and my eyes moving inside my head. My leg hurts, and my foot too. But those are not my worst problems right now. As I said, I feel broken, overwhelmed by everything.
I need time. And I needed to say that. I don’t know if anyone will read this, or even if anyone will understand me, for, even in my mother language, I’m not a skilled writer. After all, I don’t really think that I have a significant skill in anything. Sorry, I just had to. I don’t even know if I’ll hit the submit button, and if I do, I’m not sure why I did.