The Memory of a Flight
A perspective away from freedom
“I can’t take this anymore,” he mumbled to himself, the four-cornered walls threatened to close in on him. He stared, perplexed at the painting that stared back at him. He was lost in thought. Breathe, he reminded himself. His feelings mired in the mundane.
When did he start treating his life with such disdain?
He clutched onto his shirt; his fears held him back from trying to set himself free. With every step he wished to take, he remembered that his shackled legs would slow him down to a halt.
Where had he gone so wrong to not appreciate all the good he had in his life?
He stared down at his bruises, and a wave of pain washed over his body as he stroked them. The silence almost felt nice. His brain reminded him to rip, rip, rip until he broke apart. He shook off the anxiety, picked up his pen and sat down to write.
“Sometimes I wonder why I’m still here.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get through.
I can’t even pretend to be okay.”
When did he give up on all the wondrous possibilities that life had presented him with?
Hours of staring into blank space finally got him up and off his bed. He trudged past his cupboard, filled not with things but with memories he wished he’d find a way to forget.
The book he was yet to publish stood against the heavy course books he never got to. His dreams against his parents’. He slammed the cupboard door shut.
“Honey, is everything alright?” he heard his mother knock on his door for the fifth time today.
“GO AWAY!” he screamed.
When did he stop realizing that even when the entire world was against him, he had a handful of people who loved him?
Tears threatened to roll down his face. But he was determined. Determined to get rid of the canvas that hung right in front of him. He had stared at it for way too long. It always reminded him of how broken he was. He craved for change. He craved for peace.
How long will he falsely believe that he is not worth it?
The curtains swayed gently in the breeze. He was too consumed by the goal he had set for himself. He moved past the garbage bin filled with shreds of paper he had torn in agony. He glanced again at the abstract painting that threatened him. He reached out to yank the painting right off the wall and threw it to the ground. He collapsed, sobbing.
With every passing day, he grew more determined to find answers to the questions that had haunted him for days. And when he realized that he couldn’t “pretend to be okay”, he accepted it.
It was easier for him to believe that he was woefully unsuccessful. He was almost certain that his life had no purpose. His disappointing results in the exams made him feel like he deserved nothing.
“Was that why I started treating life with such disdain?”
An urge to know what, when and why he did things differently intimidated him. He felt the need to have his life sorted out, and the fact that he hadn’t made it all the more harder.
“Was that where I went so wrong to not appreciate the good I have in life?”
The idea of seeking help worsened his anxiety. The taboo encircling therapy and speaking up held him back from accepting that he needed help more than anything.
“Was that when I gave up on all the wondrous possibilities that life could present me with?”
Brief moments of his life led him to chaos. The comparison with friends and family was never off his sight. He never found an easy way out and all he felt was guilt.
“Was that when I stopped realizing that there are a handful of people who still love me for who I am?”
Every step of realization paved the way for a newer perspective — they weren’t just answers, but breakthroughs. Because he realized that he owed it to himself, to heal.
He glanced at his desk, grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote.
“To hold on may not mean traveling through the path of life in perfection. It does not mean having answers for everything. Maybe holding on is to embrace who I am. Maybe it is okay to not be okay all the time.”
He reached down to the floor to pick up the piece of canvas he had ripped off the wall, and this time, his perspective of how he looked at it changed. It didn’t break him anymore — it reminded him that he’s only as confined as he let himself be. The birds reminded him of the freedom he had all along, to let go and let be.
He parted the curtains a little more now. He let sunlight into the room. He made his bed, placed the canvas where it belonged and cleaned his cupboard. Finally, he stepped out of his room. His mom stood on the other side of the door, her hands stretched, tears on her face and a huge smile, waiting to embrace him.
And he realized that he was never alone.
One in four people face issues with their mental health. Being oblivious to what is happening around and to us gives us no way to end it. And every little thing we do unconsciously, be it action or speech or writing or thinking, has the ability to affect someone, positively or otherwise.
In this fast-paced world that we live in, we’re often unable to accept when things get difficult. With new methods of communication and technology, our ability to retreat and take time for ourselves diminishes.
The world has opened up to us, and has brought with it the capacity to isolate and intimidate.
We often fail to see how restricted our own individual spaces have become. It doesn’t matter if we are sixteen and just entering the more uncertain phases of life, or if we are sixty and have spent a life worth living so far — we are all vulnerable, and we can all be affected just the same.
The symptoms of anxiety and depression may grow from the depths of our own being. Opening up about it will be our first step to healing.
A world where we don’t have to think twice before sharing what’s bothering us is a better place. And a world where we listen and are there for one another is always a better place.
If lending our ears can save lives, don’t you think it’s not the most difficult thing in the world to do?
For more information regarding mental health and related helplines, visit the links below:
This piece was written in collaboration with isha jha.
