“All I ever wanted was to pick apart today/ put the pieces back together my way”
I’m reluctantly writing this. Less than a month ago I was ready to shut down Nappy Headed Pro for good and honestly speaking, the only thing that prevented me from doing so was the hosting fees I paid for this little spot of mine. Shit is still as shitty as it was back when I wrote my last post and one of the conditions I set for my return to blogging was that, I have to have good news to share with my digital community. Clearly that isn’t the case so I guess it’s back to those good ol’ depressing post that, coupled with my three month long hiatus, hopefully alienated all my readers so I can go back to having an outlet for my low self-esteem. A place where I can write whatever the hell I want without giving a flying fuck whether someone I know reads it.
With an exception of one, every post I wrote between January 2009 and January 2011 was a lie. The posts from August last year ’til now more especially. I wrote many things that were utter bullshit and the only thing that I wanted to say was that ever since I was fifteen I had terrible self-hatred issues and was in and out of depression. Naturally, the depressive episodes got longer and more intense as I got older and the next thing I knew I had planned to hitch-hike to Durban to end my life in the most romantic way I know, have it slowly taken by Indian ocean current. I would have done it too had I not met a couple of self-destructive individuals. On weekends the alcohol would lock my demons away and I was ‘fit’ enough for my infamous self-destructive behaviour. On weekdays, the dead-end job and the process of trying to rebuild what I had destroyed the previous weekend kept me busy enough to not think about my quietus and on weekends it was back to destroying again. Wash, rinse and repeat. Now that I’m once again broke and jobless, I can’t be self-destructive. Self-destructive behaviour costs money. I find myself having to face reality again and it’s not a pretty sight.
I was never the person to ask for help, even when I desperately needed it so seeking professional help hasn’t been easy. I did it anyway and now I am secretly attending weekly psycho-therapy sessions with a middle-aged white woman who seems to be only interested in my sexual history and my happiness currently depends solely on the pills the psychiatrists prescribed, which might well be just placebos. Hopefully this would help me regain sanity ’cause I’m tired of being held back by this thing in my head, not that I’m comparing myself to anybody but, seeing the people you helped pass Machine Design II drive luxury German vehicles while you can’t afford the bandwidth to apply for jobs online. I haven’t lost hope, maybe one day I’ll wake up happy again. Maybe one day I’ll finally get rid of the little voice in my head telling me how worthless I am.