Sometimes I write to share my insanity, but sometimes I write to save it.
When everything about the world feels unnatural, sanity offers no relief.
Besides, like Vonnegut said, “A sane person, when compared to an insane society, will appear insane.”
I have often considered myself that lone voice of sanity, and in that assumption, I found myself to be insane.
Fulfilment lies in finding one who will embrace such insanity with me.
Despite the search being over, the insanity remains unfulfilled.
#sanity #insanity #reality #mentalhealth #mentalhealthawareness #mentalhealthrecovery #selfworth #selflove #selfawareness #selfrespect #mindfulness #inspiration #ownyourshit #ownyourlife #theegosystem #embracingME #pursuitofhappiness #zaidismail #relationshipgoals #love #loss #fittingin
Tag: loss
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Saving my insanity
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Computing Loss
When others share their views or sentiments about tragic moments in my own life, it often overwhelms me more than the experience itself. Those first moments on hearing the bad news, or rationalising the loss left me feeling sombre, but not always overwhelmed with emotion. On many occasions I’ve been able to hold back the tears and shrug off the pain, only to lose my composure through the simple gesture or words of someone else expressing their sadness at the news.
I was in Saudi on contract when my father passed away. I recall clearly sitting in the staff bus on our way back from Bahrain where we made the monthly trip to have our visas renewed. It was late in the evening when I received the text message from South Africa. My father had passed away. He was ill for some time after surviving a stroke two years earlier, and he finally succumbed to the illness. I stared almost disbelievingly at the message, but managed to maintain my composure.
After absorbing the impact of the news, I reached over to a close colleague and showed him the message. He reached out and placed his hand on my shoulder. Only then did the gravity of what had happened hit me. Before that moment, it was just bad news. When he rested his hand on my shoulder, it somehow brought to reality the loss.
Despite never having a really meaningful or fulfilling relationship with my father, he was a critical influence in my life, and continues to be so. My relationship with him reminded me of something I had heard from a man that was facilitating a leadership course that I had attended early in my career. He said that his father had been the greatest influence in his life. His father always sat in his arm chair day after day and did nothing but page through the daily newspaper. That spurred him on to commit to never be that way, and so his father’s lethargy drove him to achieve great goals and aspirations in his life.
I’ve often overlooked some of the lessons I’ve learnt from unpleasant experiences and relationships in my life. By far, the most character defining moments for me have always been in times of hardship and great personal strife. Those moments and lessons would have been wasted if I chose to block it out with the anti-depressant medication or other escapist actions that many recommended at the time. I chose not to numb myself to the pain of what was happening. Instead, I immersed myself like a martyr wanting to feel every emotion and every sensation of pain and release, of heartache and joy. And I remained deliberately sober throughout because those were the only opportunities that truly provided me with insight into what truly lies behind the anger and futility in the actions of others. In seeking to understand my own weaknesses and emotions during those trying times, I emerged with an understanding and appreciation for human angst that I would otherwise never have acquired.
For this reason, I’ve grown to appreciate the struggles of others, and more importantly, I’ve realised that it can always get worse. No matter how bad my situation was, what appeared to be the most intensely despairing experience at the time is just another life lesson now, with each new experience raising my ability to feel joy and pain at a level of intensity that no drug-induced flight of fancy could ever produce.
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Only an old man appreciates the value of youth
Only a person afflicted with calamity can truly appreciate being free of troubles
Only the sick appreciate health
Only the dead appreciate lifeIslamic wisdom (via cynicallyjaded)
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Sealed in a Bottle
I wish that I could
encapsulate the remnants
of all our faded memories.
Perhaps, keep them in
a tiny glass bottle
and pop the lid every
once in a while
To breathe you in;
to remember that
the good old days
were not mere fantasies
that I cooked up
inside my muddled brain.
To convince myself
that once upon a time
you existed in this life
and that love was a reality.
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The story of that (empty) house
This house,
no, THAT house
held many things.
In it’s wall grewa tangle of thoughts, emotions, musings wanderings,
knotted together with desire, hope, love and courage
decaying with anger, misunderstanding, insecurity and indifference
This house,no, THAT house
was built on a strong
yet unsteady foundation
of fascination
That house (yes, I’ve learnt it now)burned down with anger.
Bellowing flames
pouring out of tiny windows.
The smoke rose in great, dense clouds
roared and flared
light bulbs exploded,
windows shattered
doors burst open
in and out
in and out.
The occupants inside singed their throats with their screaming.
Burnt their hands with their clawing, their frustration, their anger.
Huffed and Puffedand blew THAT house
down.
All the while the fire raged on(simmered, then raged, then simmered, then had to be kindled)
And one daythe fire died
(as all fires usually do)
And there was nothing but a quiet creaking house, swaying in the wind.
Lonely on a hillCrooked
Bent
……….
The one weepsfor tangled thoughts
and knotted words
and buried hopes
and heavy silences that stretch
the damp walls of an insane house
with no occupants
except one crazy heart
and one reluctant fool
who leaves and returns
with nothing on that tongue
but caution and lust.
The one weeps
For these crazy occupantswith tangled emotions
and knotted words
who neither love nor hate
Nor stand nor sit
who hover somewhere
between heaven and hell
The one walks through the houseRunning fingers over peeling wallpaper
Inspects burnt floorboards
Stopping to listen
to creaking eaves
rustles in the attic
a faint voice of the imagination,
runs a finger over dust on the mantelpiece
sits on the floor,
suddenly.
Weeps
for the blood-stained floorthe splintered drawers
of past-battles
forgotten
the notes etched in the wallsthe whispers hanging in the rafters
the sighs pressed against the windows
The house groanswaiting to fall
waiting for the one to walk out
and shut the door behind
so that it may collapse
peacefully
quietly
finally
as if it had never existedas if the walls did not hold stories
as if the rooms did not hold thoughts
as if the ceilings did not hold secrets
as if the carpets did not hold pain
as if the house did not hold love
As if it had never existed.

