Mike,
On that day of turmoil, I wrote my first letter to you. I vented my frustrations through the keyboard, impulsively hitting 'send' once done.
Upon its online appearance, my initial reaction was sheer mortification. "Good heavens, I've thrown myself a pity fest," I thought. Then came the worry, "I hope I haven't overexposed. Now they'll see my vulnerability."
Such is my nature, often lingering in regret and worrying over potential outcomes.
This time, however, I chose not to act on those doubts and fears. I reassured myself: Expressing genuine emotions is healthy. I can't sway others' reactions; I can only preserve my equilibrium. After all, one must articulate one's ailments before seeking a cure, correct? "Embrace your emotions, for they belong to you."—Speak Your Mind.
Moreover, my curiosity knows no bounds. I wonder who your readers are. Are there those who empathize with my sentiments? Or my fellow immigrants sharing similar experiences? Or perhaps some suppress their feelings, fearing to burden others with their woes?
Or could they be mere automatons? If so, even better; this blog is my confidante, akin to the ancient tree hollow where secrets are whispered and kept.
Overthinking has been my constant companion, more so in my youth. I'd self-diagnose with an array of mental health conditions, courtesy of 'Dr. Google.' Some days, I'd suspect borderline personality disorder, plagued by indecision, a warped self-image, and abandonment fears. Other times, anxiety disorder seemed the culprit, with excessive worries looming over me.
Yet, the rumination haunts me most as time passes: the relentless "chewing" over thoughts, ideas, or decisions that disrupt normal mental processes.
I once took pride in my reflective ability, believing it would lead to self-improvement and, ultimately, undefeatable.
Unfortunately, life seldom conforms to our desires, and life doesn't repeat itself in the same pattern except for our reactions. I'd replay scenarios, only to find myself sinking into an ever-deepening abyss.
Lately, I was bothered by an overanalyzing coworker. She insists on cross-referencing every tidbit of information with what our supervisors share, claiming it fosters transparency. Yet, I sense her anxiety, her need for reassurance, perhaps to confirm that operations tilt in her favor.
I've dwelled on her actions, even scrutinizing our leaders' conduct for any hint of partiality. The quest yielded no answers, leaving me swamped by paralyzing thoughts.
Your words from our recent exchange resonated deeply: "A person with an addiction relocates from Texas to Florida, seeking a fresh start. Yet, upon arrival in Daytona Beach, he uncovers the drug scene because the geographic change doesn't automatically improve coping with life stressors. It is not the addict's desire to self-sabotage. Still, he doesn't expect growth to feel uncomfortable, so he repeats old patterns to cope."
You used that example to convince me that unless I change myself, I will constantly be tortured by the miserable feeling that seems brought on by the external world but generated inside of myself.
Drugs are everywhere to be found, but whether letting the drugs have power over us or not is our own choice.
You put your hands on my stubborn head and forced it to look in a different direction instead of staring into the dark tunnel that was so terrifying and made me immobile. As I stepped back and started to breathe again, I noticed the tunnel was beneath a small hill that I either could get over or get around with. I breathed freely again with newfound clarity, realizing the tunnel was a minor obstacle.
Fern