“Something’s wrong with you,” she says, a questioning look in her eyes. Really. I laugh, trying to shake it off. “It’s probably the alcohol.” We’ve just drunk a glass of wine and a mojito. Home-made. It’s the first time we drink together. But I’m not convincing enough. “No, it’s something else.” She doesn’t know me that well, how can she be so sure? I thought I’ve found some kind of balance in the last couple of hours. But probably it was just another attempt to escape.
Pretending sucks. She’s right. Something’s wrong. I’ve been running away, seeking refuge in company, conversations, travels, alcohol, nature, sleep. What am I fleeing from? Bleak thoughts, f*cked up feelings? It’s stupid, I should know better. We can’t run away from ourselves. My mind stresses me out. Lucerne is a rainy cage where I’m confronted with the same old thought carousel again and again. I wanted to get away, spend some days in sunny Italy. But life had other plans. And it’s okay. A part of me is even relieved.
Funny enough, we’re respected when we speak about our weaknesses. They make us human. Vulnerability is good – as long as our weaknesses are within certain boundaries. Because some things are too disgraceful to talk about, their mere existence an inexcusable flaw. I keep them within me where they fester, poisoning my mind and heart. Time heals all wounds.
I’m still feeling empty on so many days. But I’ve learnt something: trying to fill the emptiness is not the best way to deal with it. Treating the symptoms won’t help, it’s about the problem. So I will let it sink in, familiarise myself with this uncomfortable void and embrace it as an integral part of me.