THE CONFLICTED CONTRADICTION

I was ten years old with a belt around my neck when I realized I was different.

I kept it a secret because I knew my mother would take it as an insult to her parenting skills. “What are you going through? Isn’t it your mates that are hawking on the streets?” I could hear the words clearly as if she had spoken them aloud. Now, I have made my peace with her but back then, I despised her. I knew she wouldn’t have regarded me with concern but with the ever-Nigerian “What will people say?”.

I was fifteen when I learned the words ‘suicidal ideation’.

I realized that knowing and understanding were two different things and I finally understood how “not okay” I was.

I was quiet. I still am, in those moments.

Everyone- including myself- accepted that I was an introvert. We were wrong. My parents and teachers tried to push me out of my shell and help me live up to the potential they saw in me. Unbeknownst to them, I saw the potential in myself too. What I was, was in a constant struggle with debilitating anxiety. It was difficult to navigate society when I was blindly wading in what to my conscious mind I knew were inconsequential “what ifs” and “maybes”.

I was an outstanding student of course- forever the high achiever- but I was also drowning with no lifeline. Nobody had realized it yet.

I was twenty one years old when I decided to start fighting.

I was oh so tired of floating with no tether. My personal relationships had suffered enough as had the way I perceived myself. There was also the shame-because I did want to get better but it seemed like I was not strong enough.

The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. A conflicted contradiction.

I read books, prioritised my happiness, became intentional about my mental health. Do you know how many ‘Do it for the plot’ moments one must have to rip themselves from the grip of darkness? It was a learning period but I came out victorious.

Almost.

Attaining peace of mind is a constant struggle. It's tempting to sink into the familiar weight of my struggles, but I strive to keep moving forward. When I feel worthless, I push. When my feet are weighed down by sorrow, I push. When my head can’t seem to quiet down, I push. I refuse to be a slave to my drowning thoughts (at least I try to).

There are good days, moments I think I can conquer myself then the world. But there’s also this niggling reminder that soon, I will go to bed and not wake up as “me” for days, sometimes weeks.

My mother named me Ashabi- The one chosen to be born. That has been my reassurance: my existence is intentional and I need not put an end to this ceaseless struggle. I am supposed to be here and I have a purpose.

Why else would I have been chosen?