Lately, I have been feeling extremely stressed out and exhausted. Life has been a bitch and misfortunes came constantly like missiles, attacking me without mercy. The last three months, in particular, were stressful and difficult, and I found it really hard to feel happy or otherwise relaxed. Little moments of happiness have ironically become fear for me because I feel like a bad thing is going to follow soon after an instance of happiness. For me, happy moments are signs of upcoming misfortunes, like the calm before the storm. This is not good, and I know it isn’t.
I met Jessica this afternoon and shared my experiences and feelings with her. It felt really great to be able to take some shits out of my mind. She had similar experiences and this, in turn, helped her relate to my experience. We both agreed that oftentimes, we fear feeling happy because we sort of know that something bad is coming. At home, I looked for information about this phenomenon and I stumbled upon a word: cherophobia.
According to Wikipedia, the phobia may develop when one believes that after a moment of happiness, a negative or otherwise unpleasant event will happen soon, eventually tainting the happiness. It can lead people to avoid or avert happiness. Further reading and research led me to an article written by Stephanie Pappas on Livescience. She highlighted a study conducted by Dan Weijers and Mohsen Johansloo from Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand. Weijers and Johansloo noted that there are some factors leading to the aversion to happiness and cultures play a role here. In my case, I don’t think I attempt to avert happiness; I just fear instances of happiness. Or rather, happy moments have the potential to trigger anxiety.
All and all, the series of unfortunate events I experienced has led me to disappointment, frustration, anger, and greater depression. I realised I had begun to lose my faith in God, thinking that He never listens to my prayers. When I asked for answers, He gave me shits. When I asked for a time-out, He gave me more shits. I don’t think I had a chance to take a breath—I have been gasping for breath the whole time because life is so suffocating and I wish I could just die. Because of the anger and frustration, my conversation with God has been full of blasphemous words that my parents or otherwise super-religious friends would be really furious upon knowing or hearing. I yelled at God in my mind, I screamed at Him in my prayers, and I gave Him the finger. It is blasphemous for some but I don’t care about what they think of it; my relationship with God has always been something personal.
I don’t know what I have to do now. Should I still believe in Him or cease believing, I really don’t know. Everything confuses me. Each day becomes a burden and I’m still counting the days before the moment I eventually break free from all these shits but I have no idea about when that day will come so in the end it feels like I’m doing something useless, and I don’t know what I am doing with my life. I cherish the presence of those who love me so dearly and truly, and I am forever thankful for having them but I cannot deny the fact that the shits remain and I am still pretty much burdened by them. Giving up meant ceasing living for me but my pride kind of told me not to give up and let the situation defeat me. Nevertheless, it is not easy to take action, especially when I really have no idea what to do.
It seems like a dead-end for now, like a wall standing tall in front of me. I may be able to tear down the wall someday. Yeah, someday.
Junseo's Thoughts 