Holly Golightly: You know those days when you get the mean reds?
Paul Varjak: The mean reds. You mean like the blues?
Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you're getting fat, and maybe it's been raining too long. You're just sad, that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid, and you don't know what you're afraid of.
Everyone is fighting a battle; some tougher than others, but the point is we're all battling. I believe that. And I also believe that the hardest battle is the one with yourself.
We all get the blues but then the blues linger on and on and on; enter the mean reds. It comes out of nowhere on an otherwise perfectly good day. And it's temporary, right?.... Intermittently so.
On good days, the all-too-fabulous-albeit-hostile mindset of "I don't give a flying fuck" gets you by.
It's a tight rope you learn to walk on and respect. Not giving a fuck has its upside: nothing hurts. Not giving a fuck has its downside: not giving a fuck.
The bad days are full of desperation. You want to be able to simply shake off this feeling, this constant fear and repression built up in your head that holds you back.
And so you resort to isolation. Alone and gloomy, that's the only place for you. At least, that's how it feels.
Then comes the torturer and killer of all good: Guilt. Guilt does not shut up: "I have no reason to feel like this. I have everything going for me. Why do I feel like shit? Why do I hate myself so much? Why am I not happy? What if I just dropped dead? Is there a point to my life?"
The pity turns into hatred, pure loathing that strips you to nothing. And you start to believe you are nothing.
Sometimes you're so afraid of yourself because your thoughts overpower all grasp on reality of things.
You continue punishing yourself (verbally, physically, mentally) because you know you shouldn't feel like this. And you continue to do so because it becomes a habit, your own ritual.
You think too much. You believe things you shouldn't. You get scared and you become paralysed.
You decide it's easier to hide away in bed and avoid everyone, especially yourself.
But you're still here. You can't run away.
Habits and rituals....
There was a time in high school I cut myself. Actually, it became a sort of fad amongst a group of people. Part of me did it for their recognition. To feel like i belonged with a group of people. Part of me did it for attention.
The scariest realisation was that a greater part of me actually did enjoy it.
I used whatever I could get my hands on; scissors, staples, razors, knives, anything reasonably sharp really.
One time I recall using shards of glass from a recently broken shot glass... You get desperate. You become addicted. It becomes a ritual.
I never thought it was about "feeling alive" so much as punishment to your suffering and adding actual reason to the suffering.
Then, the guilt, again.
The worthlessness.
The never ending cycle..
My senior year in high school we had a rude awakening. In a span of 3 months, 3 students killed themselves. One, a classmate of mine.
I didn't even have the courage to tell my parents until the school called them and word got around via other parents.
If I said it out loud perhaps it would make it less real, less painful. I didn't want it to be real because it would mean having to face my own dark side and that was too much for me to handle.
The 3rd boy was a family friend, one we'd known for many years.
My mother and I had spoken to his mom a week before he did it. "He's fine, his older brother spoke to him." We were at a piano recital and everything did seem to be okay.
They say there's a calm before the storm; that once the decision is made, they accept their choice with peace.
The night it happened, I was chatting to a mutual friend on MSN. It's a hazy memory.
I remember going up to my mom, freezing, saying his name, and crying. That was all I needed to say.
My parents headed to their house to support the parents. I was not to be left alone, so I went over to a friend's house. We watched Friends. I made sure my other friends were okay.
The following weeks were difficult for me because someone had done something I fantasised about. I had nightmares, insomnia, a sense of guilt because I was still alive.
Some people say it's cowardly, some say it's brave.
They don't all do it for the same reason. Either way, some of us still hold on.
Some fight, fight, fight.
I'm still here. I'm still surrounded by people who love me. I choose to live everyday- the reason may not be clear right now, but it's there. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here. Believe it ornot, it is a choice.
You will eventually see yourself the way others do and you will love yourself. Unconditionally.
The decisions you make may not always be the right ones, but they're decisions. They get you through the hours, the day, the week. Keep making them, keep choosing, keep living.
You get better at it as time goes by. All you need to do is give yourself a chance.
Give yourself a chance to enjoy. To live. To smile. To be grateful.
The good days-or day (in singular)- are worth all the bad ones and so much more.
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