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It has me continually questioning myself and experiences, constantly interrogating my inferences, the nuances of my emotions: my existence and reasons for living.
“Are my experiences real?” “Or am I projecting?, I ask myself, is there a difference, a subtlety in meaning.
A friend once asked me, “why am I always stating that it is my perception”.
I feel I have to justify my experiences constantly. Saying “it is my perception”, I believe, puts me on neutral grounds. It stops others from interrogating my beliefs. In this way, I inflict self-harm by not addressing the source of my pain.
These self-referential examinations are demoralising. They slowly eat away at my sense of self, not that I had much of this, to begin with.
Living in a society where they inform you that institutional racism does not exist makes it even harder to acknowledge and accept your observations and interpretations. You infer that your feelings are not genuine or valid.
I find myself caught in a whirlpool of self-doubt, a place where there appears no way out.
My lived reality, I tell my self is an illusion.
My pain is a delusion of the mind.
I am engaged in continuous gradings, ploughing against prevailing narratives.
