Tranquility

Tranquility is the time I have when I’m alone. When my thoughts are mine and the surroundings are quiet enough to understand that I need the space and the quiet. Tranquility is away from it all; an escapism from the outside world whatsoever.

Even in my sleep, believe it or not, I cannot find it.

I remember one time when I was little; about 7 or so, I decided out of nowhere to meditate. I dimmed the lights in my room, sat with my legs crossed, put my hands on my thighs, and closed my eyes. Whatever meditation was, I was keen to know the true feeling.
At first, it was… noisy, so to speak. My thoughts were scattered everywhere, my mind jumping from one thing to another, thinking, “OK so what’s the difference between meditating and sleeping?”
But then after about a minute or two, things begin to quiet down. I enjoyed the whole thing. There was no one in the house, except for the housekeepers who were at the garage. I opened my eyes, and I could feel my burden (whatever a child of 7 considers a burden) and my negativity went away. I declared, with absolute certainty, that what I was feeling then was tranquility. It was peace all over, and it lasted quite a long time.

I’d never felt that way again; lately if I’m trying to meditate there are thousands of voices passing by or my mind just wouldn’t shut up. That moment in my childhood is one of the few that I remember down to the very last detail, and I miss the feeling.

My form of getting the tranquility lately is to be away. From my parents and other people, to be exact. But I am… misunderstood. Either that or I really have become an anti-social person. They think that something’s changing, that I’m too cocky (even my parents think that I’m cocky) to sit down and talk with them and with my sisters. That I’m spending too much time in my room and on the computer.

How am I suppose to tell them that I think I have Bipolar Disorder? How am I suppose to say that, lately with the mania, my sleeping hour is a wreck-that I cannot sleep unless it’s 3  or 4 in the morning, feeling like I have too much energy to rest? How am I suppose to say that, despite my happiness, I have my worries of my condition. I know that it is dangerous and not healthy, and I seriously fear for my health and my mental condition? Would I have the courage to tell them that, for me, my talking with them is just a serious fake attempt to be nice to people that I think I don’t even know. It’s fake. And I, to tell them the truth, am done pretending.

Parents are parents and I don’t blame them trying to get to know their children; otherwise they’d feel like they’re a failure. But we’re not interested in the same things, and I get judged by it. They would say that I’m weird, or have a strange way of thinking, or whatever, you name it. So do my sisters. They’re fed up with it, too, but still have the energy to put on a face. I don’t. I’ve spent so many years of my life arguing and hating my dad for his abuse and arguing with my mom about TV or about life principles that I’m just done pretending. I don’t know them, mainly because they won’t let me. They’re not the kind of people who would come into their kids’ room and say goodnight and give them a kiss on the forehead. They’re the kind who would come in to yell at us.

I’m not writing this to make it sound like I’m the victim or to gain pity; please. I know that I have my own faults. But the thing is that when you’re almost 20; and still have them dictate what you should or should not do…

Maybe I should try meditating again.