The green room has been filled with boxes. A bed lies in the middle as portraits of encouragement hang on the wall. The yellow light brightens up the space, making every corner visible. The full body mirror stands across the room, and I see my reflection as the future has been positioned in front of me. This is it, I thought to myself.
Leaving home was an exciting thought in June. The future remained unwritten, but the excitement I had overpowered every sense of fear. Getting to be by myself in a new city, after all, felt like a chance to start again — to start with a clean slate.
I was in a new city. I started working for a new company. Things seemed promising at the beginning. I was enjoying the job. Writing everyday made me feel good; it gave me a sense of relief.
But I felt myself growing sadder by the second. Minutes turned into hours, and hours turned into days. I was feeling lonelier by the week. Frustration creeped in, and I found myself crying to sleep. The room slowly collected dust, covering every hope I thought I had.
I wasn’t liking where I was professionally. I wasn’t enjoying the job anymore. The drive I once had months prior to the move went down the drain. Getting up everyday became a chore. Falling asleep got difficult. Downloaded TV shows became my best friends. The microwave was my source of nutrition. Eating in front of the TV was my normal. Cigarettes were burnt much more, and alcohol replaced water at night. Having a hangover was a commonplace. A sense of nonsense became my present.
Words written in the yellow notebook began to be redundant. Friends would hear the same story; my family would hear the same complaints. My sentiments were repetitive, and I was getting sick of it. The future seemed bright at a distance; but just as the sun began to fade, my happiness, too, was being consumed by the dark.
The loneliness increased exponentially, and on the bed were buckets full of tears. Rolls of tissue had gone unnecessary and expensive. My self was nowhere to be found, and so was my happiness.
But as the weeks turned into months, I felt a sense of comfort. I grew at peace with silence. The only voices I would hear were my own. The only person I conversed with was my self really. That’s when it hit me — I was alone, but not really on my own. I had my self.
Days turned brighter from then on. I was getting to know my self a little more. I started learning how to handle things on my own. I no longer considered those voices as enemies. Those voices were mine after all. They were my sanity; they were me.
Here I am four months later, living back home with my parents and working for a new company. I used to think nothing good would come out of it; but while it was an experience filled with loneliness and melancholy, it was an experience I would never trade for in the world. I know who I am and what I want now.
I’d question the purpose of my experience, and I’ve come to realize that it was not meant to be experienced with others. I was meant to experience it on my own. It was a glimpse of what it’s like to be sad, angry and depressed, perhaps preparing me for better days ahead. I had to grasp the concept of loneliness. I had to experience what’s bad to fully appreciate what’s good, and then know the true difference between the two.
I learned that underneath every pain, there lies beauty. It was a difficult experience on a day-to-day basis, but definitely one of beauty. It was, after all, my journey to self-discovery.