I’m Starting The Steps Of A Recovering Perfectionist By Finally Writing About Things I Screenplay In My Head But Have No Proof Of Existence

I was about to punch a wall if my parents didn’t start heading to the car to leave my uncle’s house. We were celebrating my cousin’s 4 month old, and if your family gatherings are anything like mine, which I’m sure they are not, they can last into the next day if you’re not too careful.I was dragged to this by my mum, who I swear lives for these gatherings, and can talk with my aunties and uncles for. ever. Everyone eats both lunch and dinner, throw in a little tea time, as well as some drinks in between, and of course a night cap right before hitting the road. My uncle’s house is very familiar, as I used to visit frequently to hang out with my cousins and attend other similar family events. Everything looks the same, except there’s an upright piano with two candles portruding from the upper panel in the foyer. But the biggest difference is that I’m 24, and all my cousins have lives, and we don’t play hide and seek until our parents say it’s time to say bye. So naturally, boredom sinks in, and I can’t rely on my cousins to entertain me, when they have disappeared to avoid being sent around to do things for the adults. Hence, loneliness, which leads to impatience, which leads to self consciousness, which leads to anxiety, leads to crying in the backseat of my dad’s car, as the BBC news radio reporter is telling us again about the people who have suffered because of the hospital staff strikes. “Can we please listen to something else!?” I tell my parents, so oblivious to anything beyond my uncle’s garden hedges and auntie’s white range rover sport.

I just moved from the States back to Kenya, which is ‘home’, as in, it’s what’s written on the front of my passport. I’m in nairobi right now, which has lots of family, food, traffic jams, buildings, malls, mosquitos, chai, dust, bad fashion choices, religion, politics, nakumatts, artcaffes, young people, pollution, technology, and history.

Being back here in what will be a week tomorrow has already got me feeling uneasy and super doubtful of what’s to come, of what tricks god has up his sleeve for me. In as much as I tried to look forward to moving back, and as much as people encouraged me, prayed for me, pep talked me, advised me, and dreamt for me, I don’t want to be here. In saying this, there will be some real unpleasant talk on this blog, and perspectives of those who know me in real life might change. BUT the whole purpose of having this blog is for me to process this stage of my life through some type of creative therapy. I crave to be an artist in any way I can. I’m a musician of sorts, and even though I can play some instruments, none of it has ever been some type of therapy for me. Sure, it’s fun, but it hasn’t released something in my soul, the way, say, listening to all my favourite music does. [If I could, I would want to spend the rest of my life in a coma just listening to awesome music through my headphones. I genuinely get sad when i think about all the music that’s out there I’ll never get to hear in my lifetime.] So if writing can be fulfilling for my soul, then I’m finally going to experiment with it. Idk.

 

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