As with usual “Personal” posts, I am slightly wary about sharing something that deep, for fear of losing – and especially on a topic I have been trying to (contradictorily) repress yet harp on, especially to those who would actually listen. However, writing in my diary can be slightly repetitive, and I like to let a very very small circle – the circle which form the essence of who I am – know. (As usual, I am writing with a few in mind – 4-5 this time, and you most probably would have received the hyperlink at some point because I cannot keep my fingers to myself when it comes to you.)
Furthermore, the reason to half-broadcast: some website states that to let something go is to face it fully in the face, and writing might actually help. At this stage, I am willing to give anything a go.
Warning: as I started typing, I allowed my heart and my fingers to take control. Probably not as inspiring as Georgiana Hyde-Lees scribbling though. Plus she had a few hours per day, I have to return to my dissertation after this.
(Why Prologue? – let me see what it is like after counselling. Maybe there will be Parts 2 and further.)
An Attempt to Explain What it Felt Like
I have always been sensitive, and ever since I was a child I have always described it as both a gift and a curse, but kill me if I have to part with my sensitivity. As a result, I have also been attracted to more sensitive (and overlooked) fictional characters: 林黛玉 , Fanny Price, Anne Elliot. (Of course Chloe has to talk about books. Of course.)
Hence when certain chords are tugged and when I stepped out of numbness, I chiefly attributed that to sensitivity, though sensitivity has never reached to such a stage in the past, not even in the peak-times when it has generated so much creativity that I could just write non-stop (and also get schoolwork done).
However, sensitivity is a friend who knows when to pop up (and occasionally whine). This, I am afraid, does not. Suddenly one will wonder where the time has gone because one would just roll around in bed upon arriving home, not really focusing on anything, and only rising to work when it is slightly too late. Not that it really mattered, seemingly, because sleep was interrupted, just like meals (of course there would be snacking and midnight bites). The usual energy would be gone after keeping up with normalcy in a social context – with closer people I can actually be happy, though conversation might slip into dangerous territories, and there would be the usual worry of annoying people, since that happened in the past too, and at such stage I cannot afford to lose anybody close. Hints have surfaced since the beginning, as witnessed from blog posts such as A Semi-Open Letter of Essentially Everything, and Nearly Nothing and Realisation, Reminder, (Re)discovery, with tones a lot more pensive than the previous posts. A lot more personal as well, as if I could not focus on anything else. Moreover, not only a lack of focus – but also a fear of my mind slipping when I was completely alone, which was a big problem personally since I used to love being on my own.
What really woke me up to this was my monthly book catalogue. If I could finish 9000 pages in 3 days once while working on an essay (and was given a great grade!), then my current log is a great indicator of how much I could not focus. Nor has writing been progressing, except diary- and letter-writing. Or the compulsory academic writing, which I have been graded with an acceptable grade, though not enough, by personal standards. The most successful written format throughout the year was proofreading – maybe due to the interaction with an individual (not specific) behind, which pushed me back to my usual more-critical self.
But most of the time it did feel like I was not stepping on firm ground – those who listened became oases, and I clung to those, anything to instil that brief sanity. One more of an oasis than the rest as well – thank you. I cannot stress that enough, and I hope after reading this you will be smiling because I am fighting my way back. (Not that you will see the end of me, I will just be more fun.)
I did not expect myself to understand Hamlet that fully before. Being impenetrable to some, being difficult to quite a lot. Critics have commented on Hamlet being a dissatisfied and angry youth, but then nobody really commented on a sense of numbness. However, to get to that stage one has to be slightly numb at least. Not sure whether I have reached that stage, but I understand Hamlet. Especially when he has been crowned with adjectives that were heavier than his crown. And less deserved.
Numb – except that very very small tingling of fear: because if I do not pull myself out I will be losing more people who I truly care about. And it is not something smiley faces can help.
My previous therapist asked me what was the main reason I sought help. I told her simply that I could not lose the few people who are sticking with me. But then I guess because they remind me of a version of me that can return. And that is what I am doing. I am returning.
For those who have faith in me,  but mainly, for me.
 I am sorry, Miss Chan, I really cannot bring myself to admire 薛寶釵. She will be great as a friend but then not as a fictional character. Not that you will actually read this so this is just for me to laugh really.
 I have been cheesy in my thank-yous to you probably and repeatedly. So I will not write another again, but then do know how grateful I am.