It’s weird, directing my writing at someone. I’ve spent so many years, written so many blog posts, directing my writing at nobody specific — not even myself, at times (more often than perhaps I’d like to admit). Even though, in reality, you are nothing more and nothing less than a name, three letters on a screen, in fact, it still feels like I’m writing to you, if that makes sense. You don’t exist in any capacity greater than a fragment of my imagination, but maybe that’s just what I need — I guess we’ll wait and see.
It’s even stranger, perhaps, that my first letter to you is being written at gone 3am on a Monday morning. I’m sat at my desk, typing quietly at my laptop; my family is asleep, and whilst I’m not worried about waking them up — keyboards aren’t loud enough to wake even the lightest of light sleepers –, I think the silence of the early morning is something beautiful, and something to be admired and preserved as much as possible. Shamefully, perhaps, I’ll admit that I am drinking a strong mug of instant coffee, and that as we speak, at 3:32am, I am seriously considering topping up my beverage of choice. It’ll undoubtedly happen; I’ve given up on sleep for the night, and have opted for a few peaceful, restless hours of quiet contemplation, and internet perusal.
There is so much going on in my head right now; I don’t know where to start, quite honestly. There’s a heavily-used cliche, which is present in almost every young adult novel, film, etc: the teenage protagonist, tossing and turning in their bed at night, ‘mind racing’ with screaming thoughts. But I don’t feel like that — quite the opposite.
Sure, my head is a mess; I’m confused, and have endless things — problems and possibilities alike — to consider. But they aren’t loud in my brain, nor are they keeping me awake. Moreover, the relentless feeling of nothing, the deadly silence that envelops my every thought makes me restless, uncomfortable within my own skin. My mind should be racing, my thoughts too vocal in my own mind to allow my eyes to close and sleep to take me away to somewhere, albeit for a few precious hours.
Instead, the sound of numb silence fills my ears, amplifying even the smallest or most insignificant of thoughts a thousand times over, until individually, it takes control of my everything, and refuses to release me. One problem at a time, one thought after another, I am being dragged under — a dead weight sinking in a sea of, well, everything.
Maybe I should write out what’s going on, explain to you everything I keep referencing so illusively. Writing them out in clear, non-rambling points might at least help me to see things in the clearest way possible, and that can’t do any harm, I hope.
1. My mental health is not doing so well at the moment. I’m constantly seeing the worst in myself, and in everything around me; I”m always on edge, worrying about everything — what’s happening, what happened, what’s going to happen, what they think of me, what I think of them –; I can’t see anything positive to come, either in life or in myself, and it’s getting too much.
2. I am having feelings for someone, which is confusing at the best of times. They don’t like me, and that’s fine; I don’t expect them to. But it’s difficult, especially as it simply confirms in my own mind the fact that I’m gay. I’m not bothered by that — not at all –, but it’s all about finding your personal identity, and confirming that in your mind is both reassuring and terrifying.
3. I’m moving away to college in less than a week’s time. I’m excited — don’t get me wrong –, and I’m not actually showing any signs within myself of being nervous, which is surprising even to me. I should be scared by now: I’m moving out of home, to somewhere unfamiliar, with people I don’t know and a life plan of fantasies and unrealistic dreams. Yet, I simply feel like change is coming — for better or for worse –, and believe that the buildup will be worse than the move itself. So, despite not being nervous as such, I’m just waiting, and that’s hard enough.
They are the main points, I suppose. Each of them have their intricacies, the things that make them unique, and extra fun (code for bad). But that’s them summed up in a nutshell.
On a physical level, the biggest change is obviously moving. This time next week, I wonder how things will be. Maybe I’ll re-read this letter to you, and see how I feel about it then: will it still ring true to me, even then, in a new room, in a new city, with new people and new prospects? Or will things have settled — even just ever so slightly –, so that come the early hours of Monday morning, I’ll be fast asleep in bed, not up with myself for company. Of course, only time will tell. My emotional and mental health problems aren’t going to disappear overnight; I accept, and in some ways embrace that. It means that, at the very least, I am forced to face them directly, and actually deal with the things that are affecting me, rather than ignoring them, or allowing passive resistance to do the work for me. But I wonder how my perspective on them will change, by this time next week, and then next month. Next year, things could be completely different — or not. Who knows.
I think that’s all I’m going to write for now, Joe. It’s been good writing this to you, and although I can’t say it’s ‘helped’ for tonight, it has definitely allowed me to get down into words at least some of what’s in my head. I’ll leave you with that for now, but I’ll write again soon, I’m sure.