Things I Whisper to the Moon
ARCHIVE: SAIDA DAHIR (December 14, 2023)
Dear friends, family, and random internet readers,
As many of you are aware (many of you are not) these last couple of months have been very taxing on my mental, physical, and spiritual wellbeing. There have been many times I have tried, and failed, to write during these pivotal and tumultuous times. This is my first public attempt, please bear with me.
Since graduating college, my life has been a whirlwind, filled with a multitude of experiences to appreciate and challenges to navigate. Over the past year, I've accomplished significant milestones: completing my degree, relocating to New York, and embarking on my first job after graduation. Yet, amidst these achievements, I've also encountered setbacks—a troublesome skin condition, dissatisfaction with my initial job, subsequent job changes, and a persistent struggle to maintain my sense of self. Compounded by lingering childhood traumas that resurface with unwelcome familiarity, I find myself once more grappling with the depths of depression.
So now we are here, and I have finally heeded the persistent drumbeat of my subconscious that day in and day out tells me to write.
I have always wanted to be a writer and author. When I was in elementary school I wrote and printed out an “About the Author” sheet for my forthcoming book. I even wrote a book as an activity in one of my classes. These moments filled me with great joy. Yet, despite my passion and will to be a writer, and my short stint as a ‘successful’ poet (that is a story for another day.) I found myself dispirited by my perceived lack of talent. You see one thing about me, one deeply sad thing about me, is that I have absolutely no self-worth and esteem. No matter the praise and acclamation, I am my worst critic. I think every piece of literature produced by myself is utter garbage. Nothing is backing this notion, in fact, reality says otherwise.
This lack of self-esteem has tainted most of my life. It has forced me to stick to the sidelines as I see my peers doing marvelous things and accomplishing grand feats. With this stagnation has come extensive jealousy. Jealousy which I am not proud of but am forced to admit. This green monster has eaten away at the fractions of self-preservation I fostered. Thoughts of ‘why not me, why them, what did I do to deserve this’ plagued my mind. No matter the accolades in my name, the flattery thrown my way, this emerald beast grew in size. Till it devoured me whole.
I haven’t been able to write or create anything artistic in the last couple of years. At least not anything with substance. Depression has stolen my passion for expression. My mind has been blank like the pages in my journals.
I recently stumbled upon a cure for this, my pills, which help me calm this beast, as well as his comrades. It has been a couple of weeks since I was diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and DPDR. With this diagnosis comes 30 happy pills in a bottle. The cringey simile pains me too, dear reader. I told you to bear with me, didn’t I?
Please bear with me as I traverse the dangerous terrain of being a self-proclaimed writer and poet. Bear with me as I try and try my hardest to be talented. Please bear with me if I give up.
This is not the first time I have attempted to share my story. Four failed blogs, three failed YouTube channels, two failed podcasts, and one failed poetry career, I am here again. Attempting once more to build enough discipline. To create. To matter.