I suppose I should issue a warning :
Hormonal, emotional, negative, incredibly selfish writing below : Do not enter with judgement. Or rather, do not enter AT ALL.
Warning issued. I'm writing with no restraints whatsoever here. If you think I'm talking about you, you're probably right. Maybe.
Like I said, no restraints. That means my ethics is questionable in the following.
For once, I'm writing in a blog for myself. Because it takes too much time to write in a diary, and time is a luxury now. Thoughts in my head come and go at a speed my pen cannot follow. I'm writing my thoughts without a filter, without an edit. This is therapeutic writing. This is cathartic. This is for
me.
If you can't take it. Don't read it. You have a choice. *backspace*
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I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I shouldn't be.
But I am.
I am constantly surprised at the extent of the effect you have on me, regardless of past experiences. You alone possess the singular ability to strike this hard, this deep, this long. That I'm still in danger of falling back into what I think is a mistake.
But is it?
To feel so strongly after so long and so many times, to have such difficulty keeping you away from this mess of a mind; is falling back into it a mistake, or is keeping my distance a mistake?
Perhaps you were the only one who've ever tried to strike me. Perhaps this is my mind's default response to all strikers, but so far you were the only who've tried.
And boy, what a strike.
Sighs.
I suppose circumstances led to this...relapse.
Circumstances like D event. Circumstances like now.
It doesn't help that D event constantly puts a wedge into my social life. I fear rejection more than ever now; and yet life cannot go one without rejections. I fear rejection so much that I go out of my way to avoid it. Perhaps I've set myself up for rejection in the past. Perhaps I've been going to the wrong person, to the wrong places. Perhaps it's simply me being selfish again. But being rejected
hurts.
I understand, rationally, that not everyone thinks like me, behaves like me. God knows I have a certain ...
eccentricity. I understand, rationally, that nobody is obliged to accept your extended invitation. I understand,
rationally, that everybody have their ways of living, and that medschool life is not something where you can simply give in to frequent spontaneity.
I understand all this. Rationally.
I used to invite people every time I plan to do something; dinner, movies, cafe hopping, long drives, sports, jogs; even grocery shopping. It's like a reflex; to search for companionship. After D event, I would've expected myself to be stronger. More independent. To be more content being alone. But no. Even though I spend most of my time alone, and actually feel comfortable alone, I lament the lack of companionship.
I fear myself when I'm alone. I become this monster who simply loses all control. Because I'm alone, I don't have to wear a mask of amiability, of being considerate, of catering to another's needs.
Because I'm alone. Because when I'm alone, I'm free.
And Freedom is something to be feared of.
Thus I ask. I don't want to become the monster I hate. Recently my control over the monster has been slipping, that sometimes it rears its head at my friends and colleagues.
Thus, I ask. But the answer I get 90% of the time is no.
I understand,
I do. Rationally.
But it still
hurts.
Especially when I found out they go out on similar excursions. Without me.
I sincerely hope that the exclusion was simply due to thoughtlessness. That I was simply not important enough, that they don't see me frequent enough to remember me. I hope the exclusion isn't intentional. I do hope I have not deteriorated to the point where people took measures to avoid me.
*shakes head vigorously* I mustn't think of things such as this. I simply mustn't. I cannot afford to
.
*shakes head*
Back to rejection. Back to the dreaded 'no'.
I didn't realise I was dejected, I didn't realise I was disappointed. I didn't realise I started to go out without asking. I didn't realised I'd stopped asking. I didn't realise I feared. Not until one day I realised I'd stopped asking, and turned to the mirror and asked myself why I stopped.
I feared. I hated feeling the way I do every time a 'no' comes my way. Like a rubber bullet, not deadly, but hurts like the devil. I'd become so intolerant to hearing 'no' that I'd simply avoided putting myself in its striking range.
So I stopped asking. I stopped asking
anybody for
anything. I became the one person I'd feared the most when I was younger. I went to places on my own. I do things on my own. I flit in and out on my own schedule, without informing anyone, without telling, without asking. I started to hate human contact. I started to hate being asked where I am, or what I'm doing, or where I plan to go or do.
It reached the point where it became a game; how many places can I go alone? I've went for breakfast in a crowded roadside stall with nothing but a phone for company. I've went to the cinema and shared anecdotes and comments with myself because I don't know the strangers on either side of me. I went to cafes and sat in a dark quiet corner wishing for company but enjoying the silent comfort of being free of company. I went to coffee festivals and sampled all the coffee and chatted up baristas. I talk to myself, negotiate with myself, out loud, a lot. I'd done a lot of things I wouldn't have done otherwise.
But I hated being alone. I would go on long drives because I didn't want to go home to a dark empty room. I would go on long drives and cry in the car when the loneliness suffocates me. I found myself rubbing my own arm unconsciously when queuing behind an old loving couple in Tesco. I talk to myself,
a lot. I relate to sad songs a lot more than I used to. Even happy songs can make me cry. I hated that I have a choice to be happy, and I chose otherwise. I hated that I needed others to be happy.
What happened to being self-sufficient? What happened to choosing happiness?
I know I'm being selfish. That I feel that the reaction of others have indirectly led me to this. But as I write this, I realised that I have no one to blame but myself. I have other friends. I have other acquaintances. Why do I keep going back to the same ones? Why do I write off the people who'd been there for me, who'd let me indulged in my spontaneity, who'd even enjoyed being with me? Why do I get all worked up over people who probably doesn't care that much about me?
Why do I always care too much about people who shouldn't matter, and ignore those who should?
You see, I know this all. Intellectually.
But it seems that my intellect is no match for my emotions.
GAH.
The point of all this was to try to rationalise my relapse. To tell myself that it happened once. It happened twice. Maybe thrice. It didn't work. It never really did. I admit that I need to learn how to voice out my needs, my wants, my concerns. I've hated conflict ever since I can remember, and while I'm learning how to face it instead of avoiding it like the coward I am, it's not going well. My avoidance has proven to be useful at multiple points in my life and it's hard to ignore the instinct to turn a blind eye. Ignorance is bliss, after all. Even pretend ones.
But that is beside the point.
I thought I was over all these. My life is complicated enough with all the tutorials and lectures I attend. I thought my mind would be too busy to dredge up history, to dream up all these make-believes. I thought solitude would calm this mess of a mind down.
But no. It had to dream up possibilities. Unrealistic, idealistic, impossible possibilities. All serving to sink me deeper into my desolation.
So much for thought.
I've never been a big fan of marriage. The idea of so much responsibility was terrifying to a younger me. But now I'm beginning to see the merits of it. The appeal of lifelong companionship, of sympathy--if not empathy. The appeal of a shoulder to rest on when life goes too fast. The appeal of an arm to rely on when responsibilities weighs you down. The appeal to offer the same for another, to share such a bond that giving becomes a pleasure, that being able to help brings relief. Of shared burdens. Of shared joy. Of shared problems. Of shared reliefs. Of
sharing.
The appeal of a family.
Friends are just that. Friends. There's an end. I've learnt to not put so much heart and soul into what will end one day. It is, indeed, a precious--but incredibly rare--moment if you found someone who, while not related to you by blood, who puts up with your bullshit, who holds you up when your legs are too weak, and puts you back together when you're broken. Most times, people just run.
Most times, I do. Run, I mean.
And blood; I've been blessed by blood. So incredibly blessed with my experience of blood. I know not everyone's the same. But my
blood. Its thickness and viscosity just engulfs you whole, even when you're a mess, even when you're broken beyond repair. It sweeps you up and drowns you in familiar comfort; thick, warm, soothing. It cradles, it nurtures, it fixes you up. Regardless of who you are, where're you're at, or how evil you've been. Blood's forgiving. Blood's accepting. Blood's blood.
All this is making me miss home.
I know I probably don't make sense. I'm much too distressed to actually write coherently. I swear, I'm only writing to clear my mind up.It helped quite a bit, surprisingly, considering my current state of mind. These few days have been...tumultous. My eyes are swollen from all the crying, and I swear PMS hasn't even hit. I guess the loneliness is more evident when holidays are upon you; short ones, where you can't go home, where you can't go anywhere but into the dangerous recesses of your own mind.
I should stop.
I will stop.
p.s. I need to remember that there
are some people who rarely says 'no' to my spontaneity. I need to remember how happy I felt when the occasional 'yes' comes my way. I need to remember good things too. I need to stop fixating on the negatives. I need to stop being selfish. I need to stop.
