It is said that the first step to the recovery is to admit that one is ill.
I've read an email recently -not a big thing, a friend asking, what about the city, we used to live in and what about the projects we used to do together. It was not even addressed to me but to a bunch of people. It was not even personal, more that he wanted to update himself with the latest news. But it brought a sudden and deep wave of sorrow and tears. It broke a final string of my pretending that I am fine and tough. Though I started to work with my own macho-style approach to all that I've been doing and feeling already some time ago, have learned already much about traumas, burn-outs and activist support and even started to prepare myself to help out others to deal with those problems... I still had this string stretched inside. The last one. Yes, I am burned out. Yes, I am weak. Yes, I spent last half a year struggling and forcing myself to do every little thing. I still struggle to come back to activism I did before it all happen. And I wonder, how suddenly this burn out caught me. I was happily leading my macho-style life, fighting, working, doing stuff. All the time doing stuff, feeling bad when not doing anything. And than all my life broke down. One of the most important and for sure the most intimate relationship I had at that time occurred to that so important person something you can just end up from one day to another, regardless of the struggle and dedication we both put into it to save what was so precious to us. How could that happen? One of the pillars I based my life philosophy on - love, friendship and compassion just broke down into pieces. My new gain hope and a new taste of freedom I found in polyamory left me completely destroyed, exhausted and wounded. When I was trying to deal with that, some group of violent bastards destroyed a project I was building for long months. Than the safe space where I was fulfilling myself got closed and abandoned again as it was before and my friends who were there with me, admired by others for the work they did, quarreled, lost their energy and interest and went away in different directions.
I came back where I came from to not find my old friends there anymore. And I did not receive any help from the society I tried to build. So my dreams crushed with the reality. I stopped believing that it is worth fighting, looking for other solutions, building a new world. Why should I if it any way ends up in a dark dead-end street, with no one there to hold your hand?
I am slowly getting over it. It took me long months, during which I could do so much stuff. And I blame myself, which does not help. And I do feel bitter that the one who went through it all with me has little to do with activism. And he was there, patient and listening, learning and feeling compassion, seeing me under a monster I became because of the grief I was disposing of. And here we are, both stronger, richer in experiences, in love and holding hands. How could that happen?