Letters Before Insanity
My dearest friend,
I know; this is probably the last email you were expecting to see on a Friday morning. Same here; I did not think I’d be awake by 1:50 am writing to you, but here we are. No, nothing, in particular, is keeping me up at night; I just got back from work. But something has weighed heavy on my mind for days now. Can I place it? Nope. To say I know what is wrong with me is to tell you lies, and these letters to you have been nothing but truths.
Sometimes I think I need to go for therapy or evaluate my mental health. I think the latter suits my current predicament more. I genuinely believe some screws are loose upstairs. But then again, it can be my brain doing its thing-overthinking. Recently, I’ve had no interest in things that used to excite me. I frequently have this burst of motivation to achieve a million tasks at once, and then I loop into a series of nothingness (no desire or will to do anything). Not to self-diagnose, but I think I have ADHD if I go by Twitter threads, but then again, I’m the laziest person I know, and that’s a fact. This might just be a case of “I’m using my hand to do myself.”
On the other hand, I may need serious help. I forget things quickly now, and I have these periods of extreme highs and lows. Okay, no extreme highs, just normal levels, and low lows. I’ve never been the type to heartily laugh when watching movies, skits, or listening to jokes. This is not to say I don’t acknowledge when things are funny, but to laugh immensely has never been my cup of tea. But recently, I’ve been finding these things more amusing than usual and laughing to the point of tears. I see this as my body crying for help because why do I desperately need something to laugh about?
The person who championed the saying, “don’t worry so much about the future that you forget to enjoy the present,” must have had a beautiful life. Because if the present was so exciting, I wouldn’t worry about tomorrow; I would be hopeful that whatever I’m feeling can only multiply. But since the present seems to be shit, the probability tomorrow would be worse appears to be high. I’m a betting man, and the odds don’t seem to be in my favour.
On another note, never take your hobby as a career path; else, you become miserable. I know because I’ve been there, and no, it’s not about the money. At one point, I earned good money on gigs, but I ran, I quit, I was miserable. I’ve not still been able to write as I loved to, and lord knows I’ve tried. Some things are meant to be as they are and not a source of income. But this is not to say people haven’t succeeded in doing so. If you are multi-talented, unlike me, and have the luxury to monetise one and use the other to relax, then good for you. Writing used to ease my stress until it became my stress.
I like to know things, not in an amebo or gbegborun manner, but things pertaining to me. So I find myself fighting the constant urge to ask people how they feel about me, In detail with examples. No, I don’t need it to validate my existence. I know I’m often awesome. It’s just that, sometimes, I think people get tired of me. Or I’m not exciting enough to matter beyond hey and hi. The only way to be sure is for you to tell me what it means to you that you have me in your life. Like I said earlier, I think something is wrong with me.
As I close my letter to you, my friend, please, do not reply with words of encouragement, and don’t try to logically explain why you think I feel the way I do. I’ll only feel worse. But if you want to tell me how you’ve been struggling too, go ahead. What do they say? Misery loves company.
With all my Misery,
William Adesakin.
