It’s 11:42pm. I just finished work, and I’m very tired and sleepy, but I need to write this down.
It has been three days since I last wrote here; my last post was the first day of my most recent anxiety. It passed—l hamdellah.
I’m now in phase two of post-anxiety; the severe exhaustion and depression, but that’s okay; I know it’ll pass in a day or two. This is not what I wanted to talk about; I need to talk about another thing.
I keep apologizing, to people, to things, to life. I was in a van going home, and I noticed how sad I get whenever I see anyone less fortunate or unhappy. As if it is my fault. As if their happiness is my responsibility. I find myself apologizing to them in a low voice and an aching gut.
To the old man who just got out of the van carrying tens of medications in a yellow Spinneys bag, I’m sorry. To the guy who is crossing the road wearing ripped shoes, I’m sorry. To the baby sleeping in his stroller as his mother exploits him to get pity money, I’m sorry. To the woman who is carrying her wallet in a black plastic bag, I’m sorry.
To the waiter and waitress standing all day waiting for customers, I’m sorry. To the children selling red flowers at night, I’m sorry. To the always smiling man selling gum near the Tayouneh roundabout, I’m sorry. To the cleaning man who fell asleep on the street, I’m sorry. To the people selling juice and kaak and corn in a trolley, I’m sorry.
To the sadness in my dad’s eyes and the desperation in mum’s, I’m sorry. To my sisters’ tears and worries, I’m sorry. I wish I can hug you all to safety; I’m sorry I am not of much help, I’m sorry I can’t make it easier on you.
I’m finding this extremely hard to finish, but I need to write this down. I’ve been carrying everybody’s burden on my shoulders for so long; It’s killing me more and more every day. Recently, whenever anyone tells me a story about a person in need, or a story about someone getting laid off from work, I turn aggressive. I’m sorry, but I will probably take responsibility for their poverty and unemployment, and it will kill me even more.
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I can ease your pain, I wish I can take it all away. I wish I can give you health and safety and stability and happiness. I wish I can give you life.
But I can’t. All I can do is send you wishes and carry your problems and pain upon my shoulder, hurting myself and not helping you with anything. I’m sorry my existence turned out to be this way; I wish I were not so broken and more of use.
I have been working on this extensively with my therapist; he’s trying to convince me to let go of some of these responsibilities. I’ve been learning how to let go of things I cannot control, of things that I did not cause. I’m trying to learn how to leave people’s pain and deal with mine. (I guess it’s harder than I thought)
But I’m happy I can finally acknowledge all of this. I thought it’s normal to carry everybody’s issues and treat them as my own; I thought that’s why I’m in the humanitarian sector in the first place. I didn’t realize that carrying the world’s poverty is why the humanitarian sector is alienating me.
I’ll learn to leave your sadness for you to deal with; I’ll learn how to let go of your responsibilities and focus on mine. I’m sorry you can’t afford your medication and your school and your rent; I can’t afford your medication and school and rent either, and I’m sorry for that;
But I’ll have to let you go.