This will be a shorter post for the meantime as I am about to go snoozing off for the night (hence appending In Short to signify something that spells less than 500 words; and will, from now on serve as a header that briefs the reader that he/she may expect an abridged piece).
Setting up this blog had not been easy, especially that of considering using my real name as I blog. Doing so may be a potential risk to my job and perhaps my reputation, as mental illness still has this form of stigma enveloping its realities. Thus being said, I had second thoughts of revealing (even just a bit: there are lots of Shirleys in the world) some aspects of how I live as a person with a psycho-social and neurological disability as I very well understand reluctance on society’s part to acknowledge the seemingly more obtuse side of an “erratic” albeit “passionate” mind. However, as I mulled over whether it would be more fortuitous or agreeable to at least reveal some details about my life as a person with disability, I began to realise that unraveling even just snippets of how I battle my gloom, despairs, anxieties, and everything in between might be instruments of comfort as well as assurance that everything can be well and fine. Also, as I mused, I tried to likewise turn tables around a bit in my head: what if I was a random visitor to a blog similar to this and I found out I could at least identify myself with the writer… would I not feel a sense of encouragement that, in one way or another, I have a virtual buddy of sorts that could help calm turbulent—and terrible—mood swings, not to mention episodes of “the quivers” which plunge me every now and then into an even more depressed state? That I could read posts that beckon me to cope despite some even more detailed accounts of the writer’s failures in keeping her own sense of equilibrium? It would be definitely that heartwarming to note that I am not alone. That I can make it through the rain, as the song goes.
So it’s more of what I can do for others and myself as well, for blogging about my illness serves as a respite from brooding all the more about my supposedly hapless, decapitated efforts to survive smirks and condescension, haughtiness and stigma. At least I have a release.
What I can say, therefore, is that talking about one’s disorder is not so bad after all. Who knows I could save a life just by chronicling all these that others may find bizarre or worse, self-centred. As long as I can survive my daily terrors, then I shall continue writing.
Yes. Because I have the will to live.