It’s The First Defeat That Cuts You To The Bone

Two nights ago, I was reading my old blog entries from 2007 that I’d saved on MS Word. It was during that time when I was so into music that it’s all I wrote about. It’s all I’ve thought about. I blogged about making mix CDs, about the albums that I listened to, albums I fell in love with. I blogged about my dreams of working in the music industry. Dreams like producing records and starting my own record label. I was so hopeful – so optimistic – about my future, despite the predicament I was in. Something jumped up at me in one of the entries. A decision that, for some reason, I’ve completely forgotten.

I wanted to study Music Production in CSB.

My father gave me the greenlight to transfer schools. I was so into the decision that I was reinvigorated after being so devastated about what Southville International School and Colleges had unfairly done to me (I was taking up Mass Communications and I was forced to either shift courses or transfer schools because of my stuttering.)

I have no idea what transpired that made me not go ahead with the decision. There were only a couple of blog entries after that and there wasn’t any indication or hints as to why. My memory is as flawed as ever so even searching for the answers in my head would be a bust.

After that, I suddenly thought of how my life would have changed had it happened. I’d meet like-minded people, people whose interests aligned with mine. I’d perhaps fulfill a dream of being in a band. I’d get to finish school. I’d get to do a job that’s related to music and I’d be in a much better place compared to where I am now. I’d be happy. I’d not suffer from depression as much since I’d be doing something that my heart was always into. I reckon I’d be at peace with myself.

What happened? What went wrong?

I was active in the music scene then. I was already taking photographs of bands that I loved. I know it wasn’t the artistic deadspot that hit me that’s the cause. That came much later, late 2008, if I’m not mistaken.

I can’t recall any major family issues then that would cause it. Maybe it was a heartbreak? I can’t say that those didn’t affect me like that. But was what I felt for who my heart beating for at the time really that strong? I don’t really consider it love as that word is truly alien to me, but friends have said that I was in love with her. Can it be that?

I don’t think so. I don’t think the timeline fit. If not that, then what?

Anyway, I never really knew what caused that artistic deadspot. That ruined me. I stopped writing. I stopped taking photographs. I stopped loving art and music and life. It was also around that time that I closed myself up. That I started locking my emotional gates. I stopped feeling the things that I should have felt. I stopped feeling too much that I made myself numb.

It’s an incident of unknown origin that still reverberates inside me until now. Now that I’ve only started to feel again, to live again. Now that every emotion I did not feel comes rushing back, overwhelming me, drowning me. Hurting me.

There was one entry, however, from 2007 where I wrote that feeling anything made me vulnerable to pain and misery. That letting my guard down only hurt me. It was merely a random observation, a train of thought, that had gave no clue as to why I wrote that, why I felt that.

In retrospect, that could perhaps be the reason why I stopped living. That repeated discouragements and heartbreak made me slowly put up walls and close myself to others. And that led to the artistic deadspot.

Huh. I finally got an answer to what caused my downfall at the time.

I wasted so many years of my life because of that unconscious decision. Years that I’m in the process of taking back. There are moments, dark moments, when I think that it’s too late for me to take back what I had foolishly let go of, to recapture the life I’ve always wanted. Reading those entries made me realize that nothing much has changed, I’m still as damaged as I ever was. I’m still as broken as that young man who wrote all those. Can I ever rebuild myself? I really can’t answer that. If I never do find the answer, at least I get to say that I tried. With what I’m doing now, no matter how small or petty they may seem, those are steps in the right direction, I believe. There’s still a glimmer of hope.

That’s enough of a reason to feel optimistic. That’s reason enough to want to live more.

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