Soul-searching and Missing Cat

I have been chasing deadlines the past few days and my hairfall has increased ten-fold — this is an exaggeration. I've been anxious and stressed; holed up in my room, reading, trying to write and occasionally laughing at cat and dog memes.

Tonight, I took a break. It led to an unexpected journey of soul-searching. To put it simply, I have been beating myself up with questions. Fun.

How have I been growing as a person?

Do I even bring light and positivity to anything or anybody?

Am I that horrible toxic person to somebody?

Do I make people feel negatively about things, or even worse, themselves?

How do I come across as a person or a friend?

How? 

I want to be kind.

I want to be positive.

I want to make people feel,

I want people I have the privilege to interact with, feel good; about life, about the world, about existence . . .  about cats and doggos, and cute animals!

I have absolutely zero clue if I am doing any of these things, that I so desperately wish I could and would.

I am trying, I will keep reminding myself to keep trying.

I know that these are very unrealistic goals.

I am human; I have a gazillion glitches.

But I am human; I am not static. 

We are all human and we are not static.

We are unsteady and but changeable; these are things I am certain of.

After all of this self-beating, I am crying because I realize that I miss having a cat by my side. Having a cute furry-purry being by your side is instant therapy and a truckload of happiness. If I had my cat with me tonight, maybe I would not be here crying because I have convinced myself, after an hour of thinking, that I have been doing poorly at being a good human being. Maybe my cat ran away because I have been a horrible human?! — sobbing like the insane cat person I am —

If I had Tisa or Momo with me, I would have happily ignored these heart-crunching half-arsed soul-searching results and gone to bed. Maybe the universe is telling me that I need to sort this shit out before a cat can own me. 

Hmm.

Cool.

A Slow-witted 3 am Epiphany

I could not sleep tonight and I wish I had a better explanation, but I do not. I was thinking... pretty sure, not at the usual pace and rate that most humans do. I do not want to say overthinking because that sounds awfully cliché. I am also convinced that the thoughts keeping me up are moderately valid and lukewarm; just enough to sink into. Which is funny, because that is how I have been feeling as a human in general: moderate and lukewarm. When did I never feel that way though? If you haven't guessed, self-deprecating humour is how I cope with insecurity.

I lost track, sorry. Nothing new there . . .

I could not sleep and I was thinking about how most of my life is about writing. I am guessing, if anyone even reads this, that you know what I studied and study now. However, very big catch, I have not been writing, at all. When I logged into my blog to write about this slow-witted epiphany, I learned that my last blog post was on 22 September, 2017. That was 364 days ago! (I'm sorry, I can't be bothered to check about leap years) I remember writing my last blogpost/sad shite poem during one of my course classes, when I was failing to catch up and I felt moderate and lukewarm. Academia has its cons; very many cons for your mental health, especially when you are a human that is very highly aware of its moderateness.

This whole time I have been telling myself, and my friends, that I stopped posting on here because I wanted to write better and more mature content. I believed it, but tonight, rather this morning at 3 am, I don't think I believe it.

I started writing, many years ago, in my diary to express anything that I was afraid to tell another human. In writing, I could be vulnerable and never feel judged. This, I believe, is what I have been running from the past year. To be honest and vulnerable to people I know and love, who read what I write. Thank you for even reading what I write. I will never be able to cope with why people even take the time to read these moderate (I'm sorry, I'm overusing it) posts.

Yesterday, I was whining to my parents about how much time admin and paperwork takes. Dad made a joke about flying here to Delhi and getting it done for me, like he would have if I was little. It hit me then, I am a 24 year old adult — who very sadly does not look her age — living in an apartment in Delhi, desperately trying to juggle my academic, social and personal trash, while still battling very occasional bouts of anxiety and depression (Don't you even dare say it is a trend). I have been making a poor attempt at trying to show people I was not vulnerable. Maybe my idea of mature content meant portraying myself as a knowledgeable and cultured adult academic. That however, is a far cry away from who I am — even literally. I cried a bit before I wrote this; some poor crying start at being vulnerable. Fun fact: my phone autocorrects "trying" to "crying". That is how often I text about crying. My life sure is very mature!

I wonder . . . If I was just me, the mess that I am, would anybody still do the unpleasant job of digging through the shaky scrapes and maybe sit with me while I fumble over my words?
Rhetorical question.

People grow, but not by putting up a front. I can grow, at my own pace. If not, I'll take being a stunted bonsai. I think they are pretty cool.

Thank you making it to the end. Please pray for my sleep schedule that has now gone faulty, yet again, for the nth time.