the essence of hope

A reflection on the meaning of life - trying to find a reason to live, to care - to change. Often, those bogged down in mental illness and struggles attempt to bear the weight of the world of their shoulders and more often than not, collapse under the wei

I can’t stand the fact that I’m awake at 5am, eating breakfast & sitting on my lounge-turned-spare-bed with a book open toward the end, that I started not five hours previously. When did I last sleep soundly, without waking drenched in sweat, hand clamped down on my mouth so I can’t scream? These books help me to escape my reality that, in actual fact, is nothing remotely unsound – its just another life, bearing another insignificant existence. & that plagues me, constantly. How can I just fall into a pit of muted existence where the sounds I make don’t vibrate like echoes through mountains and valleys to be heard by someone who will hear or even, dare I hope, Listen? Is that all I want from myself? From the world? From other people? To be heard…? It seems just as insignificant as I feel.

& people will jump up & down & tell you otherwise – that one person can make a difference but I beg to differ. One person can’t change the world. I’ve seen so many people try and really, is the world any different? Any better off? After four thousand years two million women and girls are at risk of becoming victims of female circumcision (FGM). That’s six thousand women and more often girls - each day. A culture forty thousand years old was ripped to shreds without second thought &, two hundred or so years later, despite government reforms, political protests & cases in the high court – no one can ever bring back what there was. These people are now subjected to a life primarily of inferiority, face-value judgements & sub-standard living conditions in the western world. We call ourselves civilised because we aren’t nomads in the desert but the state of my classic, teenage girl bedroom is no where near enough to even begin to describe how far off calling ourselves civilised we really are. It frightens me to think that the way our country is run is hardly different to its ancient Roman origins & I can’t understand how we let a large group of angry, balding men congregate in the middle of the night to argue about the future of upward of twenty million people.

So I keep sitting on my make-shift bed in the half darkness, cereal empty of the breakfast bowl in front of me & careful not to spill milk (which may or may not be past its use by date) dab at the blood on my thighs, careful not to stain my doona cover & sheets. It’s just all so petty & insignificant when you boil it down. People talk about the essence of all things being hope – but where is there hope in an existence that we are only born into to die, anyway? Could someone please tell me the meaning of life because it could really help me out here…

Author's Note

Extract