Those moments when you realise your heart simply refuses to listen, and your brain actually eggs it on.
Those moments when all your past debates vanish like a swirl of post-coital cigarette smoke, lost in the haze of a different sort.
Those moments when your past rears up to meet you in a tsunami wave swallowing you whole.
Those moments when you are still doggedly refusing to let it go, choosing to hurt instead.
Those moments when you are still daring to hope, daring to hold, daring to want.
Those moments when a skipped beat beats skipped stones across the calm lake spreading ripples.
Those moments when loneliness trumps everything.
Those moments when everything trumps loneliness.
Those moments when lust creeps and seeps through fabric, soaking each cell, trembling, shuddering, leaking.
Those moments when apathy takes hold and pries open your desperate grip for anything that makes you feel alive.
And those moments when sleep finally greets you and welcomes you instead of keeping you an eyelid and a world away.
#midnightramblings
Wednesday, March 20, 2019
Tuesday, March 19, 2019
Only Us
I have been stuck on the positive vibes of this song for so long, and the hope and contentedness of the song has gone full circle and turned into doubt, loneliness and that sort-of-tentative-hope-but-not-really kind of melancholy. I have replayed this song until my car door knows the lyrics, and my earphones vibrate in anticipation at the start of the second verse, and my phone sighs and replays the song instead of me having to hit the replay button. The song has made me laugh, and smile, and then cry, and ugly sob, and shouting and yelling at the fates above and cursing everything that had brought me to this point in life where I still don't understand why I so desperately want what I want.
Ugh. Rambling.
Ah sorry. I realise I haven't mentioned which song.
This is Only Us, from the musical Dear Evan Hansen. It was originally sung by the main male and female leads, as Zoe found out that Evan likes her, and the song is basically just two very sad people holding onto what seems like salvation. (okay I actually don't know I just assumed 'cause I haven't really watched the thing I just scanned through the backstory with my incredibly out of practice speed reading skills)
But!
For Valentine's Day, they released a special version of the song sung by the two men who have both played the role of Evan Hansen. Ben Levi Ross and TaylorTrensch.
The catch?
They are a real life couple.
I just...
The song itself, with heartwrenchingly painful lyrics like 'I don't need you to sell me on reasons to want you' and 'I gave you ten thousand reasons to not let me go' is bad enough. Add into the mixture these two boys so in love they can't stop grinning even as they sing, and that catch for each other's hands...?
I'm giving up on love and life, but I also don't want to give up on love and life. UGH thanks a bunch Pasek and Paul.
This is my cue to insert lyrics.
I don't need you to sell me on reasons to want you
I don't need you to search for the proof that I should
You don't have to convince me
You don't have to be scared you're not enough
'Cause what we've got going is good
I don't need more reminders of all that's been broken
I don't need you to fix what I'd rather forget
Clear the slate and start over
Try to quiet the noises in your head
We can't compete with all that
So what if it's us?
What if it's us
And only us
And what came before won't count anymore or matter?
Can we try that?
What if it's you
And what if it's me
And what if that's all that we need it to be
And the rest of the world falls away?
What do you say?
I never thought there'd be someone like you who would want me
So I give you ten thousand reasons to not let me go
But if you really see me
If you like me for me and nothing else
Well, that's all that I've wanted for longer that you could possibly know
I have no favourite parts, because the entire song -- the verses, the chorus, the bridge -- they are all my favourite.
I guess it's the acceptance that got me. The idea that someone will look at you and think, this is what I want. The good and the bad. The scars and the baggage. That your past don't matter; or maybe it does, but it's made you you and that's the only thing that should matter. The idea that someone will want you as you are, and you don't need to put on masks or disguises or anything to convince them that you are worthy and that you're enough. The pure hope that you, as you are, is reason enough, and no other extra reasons are required. That nothing else matters, not the world, not anybody but you and your willingness to try to make this work.
The idea of acceptance just... appeals to me. I don't know why, but perhaps 26 years of singledom have low-key made me feel that maybe I'm just not meant for this. Having bungled up most matters to do with the heart, and the fact that there weren't really that many matters to do with the heart, it makes one wonder if maybe I'm just... not good enough to be wanted. That somewhere there is a something that I can't see nor fathom that just tells people -- not this one.
I'm a slob. I'm lazy and unmotivated. I'm too lazy to do anything but fangirl over various fictional characters. I ooze jealousy over others. I resent other people for their motivation and their successes and their happiness. I make promises I don't keep. I binge eat, and bitch about it but do nothing about it. I never watch any shows I said I'd watch. I never show up in full attention, I never remember your birthdays (or sometimes i do but i just can't muster up enough celebration cells to do something for you). I'm attached to my phone. I'm mediocre at everything because excellence is too much effort. I brag, and I'm insecure and basically I'm terrified at what the future holds and so I stagnate and hide in my room even as the future draws nearer and more concrete.
For a girl that had routinely feels that other people do it better, and routinely evaluates and reevaluates many points of her self, finding herself wanting but incapable of change (for various reasons but mostly just giving up on finding that ideal target to aim for) ; I suppose, for a girl like that, unconditional acceptance is invaluable.
Or maybe I'm just a narcissist who just wants concrete validation.
It's just a song. A song to listen to, and watch other people celebrate their love and connection and acceptance. A song to listen to, and feel like these are things that happen to other people but never me.
I guess I will always want, even when I know I love my solitude, and that I'm perfectly fine being alone.
Thursday, January 3, 2019
My Phone Addiction
I have a phone addiction.
It might have just hit me, that this addiction may have stemmed from my pathological need to avoid people.
Reading old blog posts about those dark times in the middle of the night might not have been the greatest idea. But amidst all the tears and the phantom pain, I remembered. I remembered why a book lover who had once denounced the digital worlds turned to her once sworn enemy. I remembered why, I remembered how.
God, I remembered how.
Those days of fearing rejection to the point of avoiding even the slightest chance of rejection. Of preferring to be alone because nobody can say no if you're alone. Nobody can say no if you don't give them the chance to. I was so pathologically lonely that my logic went the whole cycle round and turned back on itself.
After all, if you're alone, nobody can make you feel lonely.
That was two years ago. Two years ago when I painstakingly learnt to be alone. Forced myself into solitude. Pushed people away. Locked myself in my warped logic. I remember hating every moment of it, of the enforced bubble of solitude, but still forcing myself into it. Feeling out of place in the cinema alone. Enduring stares, imagined or not, of the crowds at famous roadside stalls while eating. Sipping hot chocolate in cafes staring blankly at the passing stream of people too busy to pause for a while in life.
My phone was my only companion. Loaded with fluffy unrealistic fiction of want and longing and hurt and comfort and fairytale endings. Filled to the brim with what I didn't have, never had. I was drowning myself, because that was the only way I could breathe.
My phone became my constant companion. I wrote diary entries in it instead of talking to another person. I read instead of listen to people telling me stories. I hid behind a screen because I was slowly losing all that made me human. I forgot how to converse with another human being. I lost interest in other people's stories; I was completely uninterested in making human connections.
And it didn't help that I didn't want to. After all, no human connection = no hurt.
2016 was... Crazy is an adequate word, I suppose. I hated being alone, but I made myself like it. 2016 was when I was forced into solitude, and having no other choice, learned to love it. Love isn't quite the right word; love is too gentle for what I had. Perhaps, obssessed is a better one. Addicted. I was obssessed with being alone. Addicted to solitude, and terrified of the loss of my solitude. Terrified of what lies outside my bubble of solitude. I was a complete lunatic.
And my phone was the victim, and my partner in crime.
But 2017 came, and despite my resolution to be alone, and to be contented alone, there was--quite contrarily--more people that insisted on barging into my life. People who I felt comfortable with, surprisingly. Once I'd resolved myself to be happy alone, and finally feeling contented alone, people started coming back into my life and I, to my surprise, was slowly letting them in without even noticing.
In hindsight, perhaps I wasn't meant for solitude after all.
But still, my phone was a shield. The very moment I felt threatened, or awkward, or afraid, the phone comes out and puts a shield and a world between me and the rest of humanity. It was already second nature. I'd associated my phone with safety and comfort, and by that point I had serious trouble keeping away from my phone. Every few seconds my eyes flit to my phone, like a heroin addict taking a hit every few seconds, missing the comfort it brings. You cannot be on your phone and not be alone, you know? It's not physically possible. Research have shown that multitasking is basically your brain focusing on each task for a few seconds before switching to the next, like a man on drugs flipping channels. It's physically impossible to be on two things at once, much less when it involves one as complicated as navigating a conversation.
Despite the influx of people returning to my world, I still close them out from time to time. I make excuses. I lied, cheated and manipulated. So that I could have my alone time with my phone. I was having mind sex with my phone every single night, every single free moment I could squeeze out. My books, physical books that I have once sworn by and loved and cherished and couldn't put down and read so belovedly, they lay forgotten on the shelves. Despite my best attempts to get a start on them, I couldn't. I gravitated back to my phone and the unrealistic fairytales that lay within.
It wasn't until last year that it happened.
See, I do try. Whenever I go out with someone, for a chat, or a meet-up, or a catching up session, I promise myself to not look at my phone. Or at least, try. But like an addict beyond help, my hand rests on my phone as I talk and laugh and giggle and gossip, and with every vibration of my phone, my eyes flit on command to my phone. And my fingers inch towards the phone and my mouth starts to make excuses about having to take this. The excuses eventually stopped; I was shamelessly and unapologetically checking my phone while in company.
But.
But. It stopped. This addiction. This pathological need to check my phone every few seconds. I was making through the whole day without checking my phone. My phone battery was still in the 70th percentile at the end of the night. It was magic.
Every time I meet this person, the conversation enraptures me to the point where I forget about my phone. I felt human connection that could hold my attention again. And it made me shift focus. Yes, there are times where I was tempted to check, but one word, one look, and the urge is batted away as simple as flicking away a stray hair. I do still check my phone though, but only when I am physically alone. But, my need for my phone has reduced so drastically, even when I'm not in this person's company.
It's completely illogical. I cannot reason this out. I simply cannot believe that my addiction could be cured just like that.
But it's happening. And this phenomenon has reduced my need for my phone so drastically, that my addiction to fanfiction and social media scrolling has lowered to near zero. I no longer check my mail religiously for fic updates. I no longer glue myself to the screen. I could hold conversations without my eyes flitting towards my phone (well, unless the conversation is so boring or awkward that my defense mechanism kicks in).
It's kinda bad though; because it feels like I'm relying on this person to make myself a better person. That this change is not from within. Because I do relapse back to my phone-caressing habits whenever I lose that level of connection for an extended time. I glue myself back to my phone and the unrealistic fanfictions when I don't hear from this person in a while, or if I go back to my solitary ways.
But it's progress, I suppose. At least I'm no longer actively avoiding people. At least I'm going out, meeting friends, reconnecting with what makes us all human. And perhaps I needed a catalyst, a human connection on a level so unbelievable that it pulls me back into this world, and remind me that I'm human too. Perhaps this person, with the enrapturing quips and witty remarks, is what I needed to break through this almost-steel bubble of solitude that I've built around me.
It's a good start to 2019, though.
2016 was learning how to be alone. 2017 was learning I don't have to be anyone but myself, and if that means being alone, that's okay. And 2018 was learning that I don't have to be alone to be okay.
So here's to 2019. Open your doors. Let connections form again. Take risks. Jump with your eyes closed. Being alone is fine, it's okay, but ultimately, it's a defense. And you know it.
Have courage, darling. Let them come. Let them hurt you. Let them link you back to the world in all its pain and wounds and suffocating ties. Let them introduce you to something more than just being okay. Let yourself be human again. Have courage, darling. Embrace the pain. Let yourself be hurt. It's okay. It's okay.
It's okay to hurt and be hurt. We all do it. It's what makes you human.
Let 2019 be the year you finally find courage to open up your heart and jump in. Let not your fear hold you back from forming connections. Who knows, this may be the year you finally find someone who you'll fight yourself for. Not just someone who will fight for you, but someone who you'll want to fight for, even if it's yourself you're fighting.
Don't ask 2019 to be good to you. Be good to 2019. Be good to yourself.
It might have just hit me, that this addiction may have stemmed from my pathological need to avoid people.
Reading old blog posts about those dark times in the middle of the night might not have been the greatest idea. But amidst all the tears and the phantom pain, I remembered. I remembered why a book lover who had once denounced the digital worlds turned to her once sworn enemy. I remembered why, I remembered how.
God, I remembered how.
Those days of fearing rejection to the point of avoiding even the slightest chance of rejection. Of preferring to be alone because nobody can say no if you're alone. Nobody can say no if you don't give them the chance to. I was so pathologically lonely that my logic went the whole cycle round and turned back on itself.
After all, if you're alone, nobody can make you feel lonely.
That was two years ago. Two years ago when I painstakingly learnt to be alone. Forced myself into solitude. Pushed people away. Locked myself in my warped logic. I remember hating every moment of it, of the enforced bubble of solitude, but still forcing myself into it. Feeling out of place in the cinema alone. Enduring stares, imagined or not, of the crowds at famous roadside stalls while eating. Sipping hot chocolate in cafes staring blankly at the passing stream of people too busy to pause for a while in life.
My phone was my only companion. Loaded with fluffy unrealistic fiction of want and longing and hurt and comfort and fairytale endings. Filled to the brim with what I didn't have, never had. I was drowning myself, because that was the only way I could breathe.
My phone became my constant companion. I wrote diary entries in it instead of talking to another person. I read instead of listen to people telling me stories. I hid behind a screen because I was slowly losing all that made me human. I forgot how to converse with another human being. I lost interest in other people's stories; I was completely uninterested in making human connections.
And it didn't help that I didn't want to. After all, no human connection = no hurt.
2016 was... Crazy is an adequate word, I suppose. I hated being alone, but I made myself like it. 2016 was when I was forced into solitude, and having no other choice, learned to love it. Love isn't quite the right word; love is too gentle for what I had. Perhaps, obssessed is a better one. Addicted. I was obssessed with being alone. Addicted to solitude, and terrified of the loss of my solitude. Terrified of what lies outside my bubble of solitude. I was a complete lunatic.
And my phone was the victim, and my partner in crime.
But 2017 came, and despite my resolution to be alone, and to be contented alone, there was--quite contrarily--more people that insisted on barging into my life. People who I felt comfortable with, surprisingly. Once I'd resolved myself to be happy alone, and finally feeling contented alone, people started coming back into my life and I, to my surprise, was slowly letting them in without even noticing.
In hindsight, perhaps I wasn't meant for solitude after all.
But still, my phone was a shield. The very moment I felt threatened, or awkward, or afraid, the phone comes out and puts a shield and a world between me and the rest of humanity. It was already second nature. I'd associated my phone with safety and comfort, and by that point I had serious trouble keeping away from my phone. Every few seconds my eyes flit to my phone, like a heroin addict taking a hit every few seconds, missing the comfort it brings. You cannot be on your phone and not be alone, you know? It's not physically possible. Research have shown that multitasking is basically your brain focusing on each task for a few seconds before switching to the next, like a man on drugs flipping channels. It's physically impossible to be on two things at once, much less when it involves one as complicated as navigating a conversation.
Despite the influx of people returning to my world, I still close them out from time to time. I make excuses. I lied, cheated and manipulated. So that I could have my alone time with my phone. I was having mind sex with my phone every single night, every single free moment I could squeeze out. My books, physical books that I have once sworn by and loved and cherished and couldn't put down and read so belovedly, they lay forgotten on the shelves. Despite my best attempts to get a start on them, I couldn't. I gravitated back to my phone and the unrealistic fairytales that lay within.
It wasn't until last year that it happened.
See, I do try. Whenever I go out with someone, for a chat, or a meet-up, or a catching up session, I promise myself to not look at my phone. Or at least, try. But like an addict beyond help, my hand rests on my phone as I talk and laugh and giggle and gossip, and with every vibration of my phone, my eyes flit on command to my phone. And my fingers inch towards the phone and my mouth starts to make excuses about having to take this. The excuses eventually stopped; I was shamelessly and unapologetically checking my phone while in company.
But.
But. It stopped. This addiction. This pathological need to check my phone every few seconds. I was making through the whole day without checking my phone. My phone battery was still in the 70th percentile at the end of the night. It was magic.
Every time I meet this person, the conversation enraptures me to the point where I forget about my phone. I felt human connection that could hold my attention again. And it made me shift focus. Yes, there are times where I was tempted to check, but one word, one look, and the urge is batted away as simple as flicking away a stray hair. I do still check my phone though, but only when I am physically alone. But, my need for my phone has reduced so drastically, even when I'm not in this person's company.
It's completely illogical. I cannot reason this out. I simply cannot believe that my addiction could be cured just like that.
But it's happening. And this phenomenon has reduced my need for my phone so drastically, that my addiction to fanfiction and social media scrolling has lowered to near zero. I no longer check my mail religiously for fic updates. I no longer glue myself to the screen. I could hold conversations without my eyes flitting towards my phone (well, unless the conversation is so boring or awkward that my defense mechanism kicks in).
It's kinda bad though; because it feels like I'm relying on this person to make myself a better person. That this change is not from within. Because I do relapse back to my phone-caressing habits whenever I lose that level of connection for an extended time. I glue myself back to my phone and the unrealistic fanfictions when I don't hear from this person in a while, or if I go back to my solitary ways.
But it's progress, I suppose. At least I'm no longer actively avoiding people. At least I'm going out, meeting friends, reconnecting with what makes us all human. And perhaps I needed a catalyst, a human connection on a level so unbelievable that it pulls me back into this world, and remind me that I'm human too. Perhaps this person, with the enrapturing quips and witty remarks, is what I needed to break through this almost-steel bubble of solitude that I've built around me.
It's a good start to 2019, though.
2016 was learning how to be alone. 2017 was learning I don't have to be anyone but myself, and if that means being alone, that's okay. And 2018 was learning that I don't have to be alone to be okay.
So here's to 2019. Open your doors. Let connections form again. Take risks. Jump with your eyes closed. Being alone is fine, it's okay, but ultimately, it's a defense. And you know it.
Have courage, darling. Let them come. Let them hurt you. Let them link you back to the world in all its pain and wounds and suffocating ties. Let them introduce you to something more than just being okay. Let yourself be human again. Have courage, darling. Embrace the pain. Let yourself be hurt. It's okay. It's okay.
It's okay to hurt and be hurt. We all do it. It's what makes you human.
Let 2019 be the year you finally find courage to open up your heart and jump in. Let not your fear hold you back from forming connections. Who knows, this may be the year you finally find someone who you'll fight yourself for. Not just someone who will fight for you, but someone who you'll want to fight for, even if it's yourself you're fighting.
Don't ask 2019 to be good to you. Be good to 2019. Be good to yourself.
- 2.23am, technically third of January, 2019.
Saturday, May 19, 2018
Closure
You know that phrase, where someone tells you, or maybe you told someone, that all you wanted was to sit down and hash it out, get some closure?
Surely, it's not that easy.There is no way you can get closure simply by sitting down with someone once or twice and 'hashing it out' and magically get closure. If it does work like that then I feel cheated.
Closure is. It's an internal process. It's a fucking long journey, riddled with self-doubt and insecurities and 'was-it-me's and 'I-should've's. It's an rearrangement of mind, a resection of a part of yourself, a negotiation with you and your past and your present and your future.
Closure is endless nights of scrolling through past conversations and messages and wondering if I made the wrong decision, if it was all just a mistake, if it could be rescued; if, if, if.
Closure is a few books worth of diary entries and endless lists of pros and cons of getting back together and apologising and basically begging for time to reverse itself.
Closure is dissecting every moment we were together, every single word I said, every single word you said, every intention unsaid, every look every glance every accidental meeting of skin.
Closure is getting choked up at random things, random places, random words because of the associated memories and yeah, sorry, just a little sand in my eyes.
Closure is cursing my own idiotic ego.
Closure is yearning, longing for every scrap of information, every stolen glance at an unaware back, every pathetic attempt at appearing unaffected while dying bit by bit inside.
Closure is constant vigilance for a familiar silhouette and running away before he sees me because god knows I'm not yet able to handle thinking of him much less seeing him even though my butterflies are flying towards him.
Closure is nights after nights after nights of Adele and Sam Smith and old Taylor Swift and every sad song in the world; and deleting all my old playlists because fucking memories.
Closure is deleting all messages on a whim and regretting it.
Closure is me telling myself again and again that it happened time and time again and history will repeat itself no matter how many times or how many different ways I crash head-first into it again because this is on me and unless I get a personality transplant it's not happening.
Closure is reminding myself every single night why it's not a good idea no matter how I feel because it goes against what I believe and I simply cannot give it chances anymore it'll all head down the same path anyway and my head tells me we're not gonna last even if we get back together and my heart just sits there with its metaphorical ears plugged throwing a tantrum blind to the destruction ahead.
Closure is watching friends and family trade affection while I stand alone with cold empty shoulders and a niggling voice inside my head telling me it's all my fault anyway why do I even complain it's time to live with the consequences of my choices.
Closure is night after night after night after night after night after night after night of being unable to put anything into words and it's all jumbled up and no way I can tell anyone how messed up I am inside for hating you blaming you for my mistakes.
Closure is drowning.
Closure is burying myself in distraction and work and new hobbies and escapism so I don't have to think about it and can let the wound heal instead of picking and picking at it making it bleed over and over again.
Closure is wanting to cry all the time and having to choke it down and starving for physical reassurance and wishing for physical pain because intangible pain simply cannot be soothed and trying to not imagine arms around me or warmth surrounding me because it never happened and it never will.
Closure is promising myself to do better next time to communicate better next time to jump and risk it next time and knocking myself in the head because what next time?
Closure is-
Closure is pain. So much pain. That sometimes I stay in bed at night unable to breathe because I threw away the chance to not feel so alone simply because of the fear of the possibility of failure because I'm a coward and it's all too late now anyway so sit there and enjoy this slow digging feeling in your chest where a heart used to be.
Closure is acceptance. That it didn't work, and it's all in the past, and it's too late, and he's not mine anymore, and maybe he never was anyway.
Closure is time. Time and Distance. Time heals all wounds, they say, but it doesn't get rid of scars, and there are hypertrophic scars and keloid scars and phantom pain and I just have to live with it, but with distance maybe, just maybe, the triggers will stay just far away enough.
Closure is-
It's walking on the street one day and suddenly realising it doesn't hurt that much anymore. That it doesn't take so much effort anymore to not-think.
It's smiling one day and realising that it's actually genuine.
It's bumping into him accidentally one day and feeling vaguely off because oh, I haven't thought of you in a while, and feeling confused on how I should feel about that.
Closure is accepting the pain, accepting the mistakes, accepting the what-ifs. Accepting that it happened, accepting that it wasn't to be.
Closure is a journey. It's an extended, super prolonged conversation with your self. It helps to sit down with each other and figure out what went wrong, and come to an agreement about what happens next. It helps. But true closure? That happens within. Nobody can give you closure if you aren't ready for it. I learnt this the hard way. I learnt this the unethical way.
But I got my closure, almost two years later.
That's my answer. That's what I wasn't able to say.
I've shed blood (or less dramatically, ink), sweat and tears coming to this closure. I've convinced my entire being to close this chapter up. I've let it scab over.
I'm sorry I cannot. I really am. For you, for me. I'm sorry I led you on. I'm sorry for all the thoughtless things I've done. I'm sorry for my dishonesty, I'm sorry for my evasion, I'm sorry for my indecisiveness. I am sorry for all the pain I caused. I truly am; I cannot tell you how much, and you should hate me for that, and I'll accept it because it's the truth it's something I have to live with, I know. And I know 'I'm sorry' will never be enough because it wasn't enough for me, but I'm still sorry. I'm sorry I didn't give us a chance to work things out.
But I...
I just can't go through that again.
Surely, it's not that easy.There is no way you can get closure simply by sitting down with someone once or twice and 'hashing it out' and magically get closure. If it does work like that then I feel cheated.
Closure is. It's an internal process. It's a fucking long journey, riddled with self-doubt and insecurities and 'was-it-me's and 'I-should've's. It's an rearrangement of mind, a resection of a part of yourself, a negotiation with you and your past and your present and your future.
Closure is endless nights of scrolling through past conversations and messages and wondering if I made the wrong decision, if it was all just a mistake, if it could be rescued; if, if, if.
Closure is a few books worth of diary entries and endless lists of pros and cons of getting back together and apologising and basically begging for time to reverse itself.
Closure is dissecting every moment we were together, every single word I said, every single word you said, every intention unsaid, every look every glance every accidental meeting of skin.
Closure is getting choked up at random things, random places, random words because of the associated memories and yeah, sorry, just a little sand in my eyes.
Closure is cursing my own idiotic ego.
Closure is yearning, longing for every scrap of information, every stolen glance at an unaware back, every pathetic attempt at appearing unaffected while dying bit by bit inside.
Closure is constant vigilance for a familiar silhouette and running away before he sees me because god knows I'm not yet able to handle thinking of him much less seeing him even though my butterflies are flying towards him.
Closure is nights after nights after nights of Adele and Sam Smith and old Taylor Swift and every sad song in the world; and deleting all my old playlists because fucking memories.
Closure is deleting all messages on a whim and regretting it.
Closure is me telling myself again and again that it happened time and time again and history will repeat itself no matter how many times or how many different ways I crash head-first into it again because this is on me and unless I get a personality transplant it's not happening.
Closure is reminding myself every single night why it's not a good idea no matter how I feel because it goes against what I believe and I simply cannot give it chances anymore it'll all head down the same path anyway and my head tells me we're not gonna last even if we get back together and my heart just sits there with its metaphorical ears plugged throwing a tantrum blind to the destruction ahead.
Closure is watching friends and family trade affection while I stand alone with cold empty shoulders and a niggling voice inside my head telling me it's all my fault anyway why do I even complain it's time to live with the consequences of my choices.
Closure is night after night after night after night after night after night after night of being unable to put anything into words and it's all jumbled up and no way I can tell anyone how messed up I am inside for hating you blaming you for my mistakes.
Closure is drowning.
Closure is burying myself in distraction and work and new hobbies and escapism so I don't have to think about it and can let the wound heal instead of picking and picking at it making it bleed over and over again.
Closure is wanting to cry all the time and having to choke it down and starving for physical reassurance and wishing for physical pain because intangible pain simply cannot be soothed and trying to not imagine arms around me or warmth surrounding me because it never happened and it never will.
Closure is promising myself to do better next time to communicate better next time to jump and risk it next time and knocking myself in the head because what next time?
Closure is-
Closure is pain. So much pain. That sometimes I stay in bed at night unable to breathe because I threw away the chance to not feel so alone simply because of the fear of the possibility of failure because I'm a coward and it's all too late now anyway so sit there and enjoy this slow digging feeling in your chest where a heart used to be.
Closure is acceptance. That it didn't work, and it's all in the past, and it's too late, and he's not mine anymore, and maybe he never was anyway.
Closure is time. Time and Distance. Time heals all wounds, they say, but it doesn't get rid of scars, and there are hypertrophic scars and keloid scars and phantom pain and I just have to live with it, but with distance maybe, just maybe, the triggers will stay just far away enough.
Closure is-
It's walking on the street one day and suddenly realising it doesn't hurt that much anymore. That it doesn't take so much effort anymore to not-think.
It's smiling one day and realising that it's actually genuine.
It's bumping into him accidentally one day and feeling vaguely off because oh, I haven't thought of you in a while, and feeling confused on how I should feel about that.
Closure is accepting the pain, accepting the mistakes, accepting the what-ifs. Accepting that it happened, accepting that it wasn't to be.
Closure is a journey. It's an extended, super prolonged conversation with your self. It helps to sit down with each other and figure out what went wrong, and come to an agreement about what happens next. It helps. But true closure? That happens within. Nobody can give you closure if you aren't ready for it. I learnt this the hard way. I learnt this the unethical way.
But I got my closure, almost two years later.
...
That's my answer. That's what I wasn't able to say.
I've shed blood (or less dramatically, ink), sweat and tears coming to this closure. I've convinced my entire being to close this chapter up. I've let it scab over.
I'm sorry I cannot. I really am. For you, for me. I'm sorry I led you on. I'm sorry for all the thoughtless things I've done. I'm sorry for my dishonesty, I'm sorry for my evasion, I'm sorry for my indecisiveness. I am sorry for all the pain I caused. I truly am; I cannot tell you how much, and you should hate me for that, and I'll accept it because it's the truth it's something I have to live with, I know. And I know 'I'm sorry' will never be enough because it wasn't enough for me, but I'm still sorry. I'm sorry I didn't give us a chance to work things out.
But I...
I just can't go through that again.
Friday, February 2, 2018
Why Am I Lovable?
Recently, I had a sort of breakdown. Recently is an understatement; breakdown is an overstatement.
Allow me to rephrase; I'm having bad days. Days when I can't remember what each breath is for, when I can't remember why getting out of bed out of the door out into the world is something people do. Days when I burst into tears spontaneously for no obvious reasons, and days where I'm so numb I keep pinching myself to remember what feeling feels like.
Even now, it is a struggle to get these words out; it seems that my tendency for verbosity has finally got tired of me and took a leave. My one pride and joy, my words, have decided to leave me.
So, in my multiple failures to leave my sanctuary, I began to scroll Tumblr with a passion. Tumblr is my one safe place, where nobody knows me, and I can say whatever I want, like whatever I want, reblog whatever I want without subconsciously fretting about what people would think of me if I did this or that. I could have my petty worries aired out, I could rant with vigour, I could admit that the things I like are sometimes unacceptable. Tumblr was the one place who understands me, and allowed me the space I needed to find who I am. Instead of happy moments of my acquaintances' colourful, inspired, energetic lives, Tumblr was filled with people like myself, and many others with different issues, some also unaccepted by the world. Tumblr became a solace.
But, I digress.
In my apathetic scrolling through Tumblr (because that's usually the state I'm in while on Tumblr), 'love yourself' began to jump out repeatedly at me. This might bring to mind Justin Bieber, but I swear, Bieber doesn't feature on my Tumblr at all. I see him enough on Instagram. But 'love yourself'? 'How can you let others love you if you can't love yourself?' they said. 'You need to love yourself before others can,' they preached. But how does one go about loving oneself?
I've realised that loving myself had become somewhat of an issue with me, some time around the end of 2016. 2017 was an entire year dedicated to myself, giving myself space, letting myself go, allowing myself freedom to express. I wouldn't say I was phenomenally successful at that, but let's just stop at 'improvement'. I'd definitely become much more of a hermit, because oft times I simply am not up for socialising. I found out that I have multiple personalities at different times, switching with no prior warning, with an undetectable pattern to them. I can be the very definition of a social butterfly, and suddenly close up like a clam the next minute, for no obvious reasons. I could put on masks and be the mask when the situation calls for it, the very definition of 'fake it till you make it', but when it all ends, when it's time for the mask to come down, there's a prolonged period of identity confusion--who am I actually? Is the mask I wear my actual identity, or has the mask become me?
There were good times in 2017, but in the freedom I allowed myself, I found parts of myself that I didn't want to face.
I didn't know who I am. I still don't. I would like to say that I've understood myself more compared to when I was 17, but that would be both truth and lies at the same time. For the more I found out about myself, the more I was befuddled by it.
I don't know what I want. I hate people who are passionate sometimes, who have dreams and places they want to be. Who knows their future, who knows who they are, who knows their dreams and destinations, whatever they may be. I watched The Greatest Showman recently, and while 'A Million Dreams' is incredible, it is also a lie for me. For no such passion and dreams exist for me. While I may lie in bed at night, kept awake, it is not by 'the brightest colours' nor is it the 'million dreams' that haunts me. I am kept awake by uncertainty. Doubts. Fear. Anxious thoughts about not being to be clear-minded the next day simply because I'm not able to sleep.
And these things are so minor, I believe everybody has them. So why are they bugging me so much? To the point where I cease to function, and has to rely on masks to keep pushing through. I love long drives, with only me behind the wheel, no one else in the car, with no destination in mind. Because it is only then that I can be unencumbered by the need to find an answer, and the need for masks. I don't have to answer to anybody, and I can keep on lying to myself.
Gah I keep digressing.
Everybody has these issues. But I don't see them being burdened by them. I don't see them blowing it way out of proportion and having it consume their lives. My friends are cheerful, good-hearted people that I can never be. Instead of being petty, short-tempered, insecure, and oft times irresponsible to the point of shutting the world out, my friends are generous, good hearted, cheerful people who welcome the world with open arms. Some of them don't see it, but they are. And they keep going with smiles on their faces.
I understand that nobody airs out their troubles on their faces all the time. I understand that. I know that they must have times of doubt and fear and insecurity, just like I do. I am not special in that sense, no. But where are they drawing strength from? To keep on going like that? I am crumbling more often, requiring more space to myself so that I can let myself go, and keeping a smile on my face is drawing much more strength than I can handle.
GAH. THE POINT OF THIS POST IS NOW SO FAR AWAY THAT I HAVE TO TAKE A SPACESHIP AND SEND IT THROUGH A BLACKHOLE TO RETRIEVE IT.
No. The point of this post is not to whine and cry about my issues. It is about my discovery that I can't find a reason why I'm lovable.
Perhaps that's the reason I keep gravitating back to the few people I know for sure who likes me (even though they'd probably gotten tired of me, and wish I would stop being so clingy). Instead of making new acquaintances and having to worry about impressing them enough to like me.
Because what's there about me to like? Why would anybody like me?
I'm not particularly pretty, no. I'm not tall enough, or slim enough, or even proportioned correctly. I have troubles buying clothes because while everybody's bodies are different, mine is just different enough to give me shopping troubles. I'm not like some of my friends who attracts people the way the sun attracts everything, cheerful, optimistic, all genuine smiles and encouragement and witty retorts. I'm not confident at all in my abilities, or in myself as a person, to be good and encouraging and competent (although I fake it all the time, to the point where sometimes I forget that it's all fake--but that's a good thing no? It is, until some innocent comment tears it all down without warning and you're suddenly awakened to the fact that it is all pretend)
I could go on and on about my stupid insecurities. But that's not why I'm here.
One of the Tumblr posts said, with infinite wisdom, to write down just one thing, every day, one thing that you like about yourself. One thing that you think could be lovable about yourself.
I tried.
I did.
But I couldn't find one thing to love.
Wait, that's not entirely true. I love my ability to spin illusions out of words, and see worlds from words. It is my only solace so far, the ability to escape reality into worlds spun from words. And I love that about myself, but only because it lets me hide. I really don't see why others might like that ability on me, though.
Gaah. I don't know why I'm writing this anyway. So what there's nothing I could find about myself to love? So what if I can't write down a single thing that's lovable about me?
I couldn't even write down reasons to live beyond my family. It seems that life doesn't hold much for me right now. Even fanfiction is slowly losing its appeal. I miss those days when I picked up new interests like monkeys pick up bananas. Nothing can hold my genuine attention for long now. I spend most of my time alternating between trying to find new fanfiction to read, and lying in bed either falling asleep at inopportune moments, or trying to fall asleep when I should be asleep.
If anybody's reading this, even the future me, please enlighten me.
Why am I lovable?
(It sounds like I'm fishing for compliments, doesn't it? It does. Perhaps this entire post should be deleted anyway. I bounced around so many times around so many points that I'll be surprised if any of it made sense.)
p.s. and the article that brought me here to write is this = https://thoughtcatalog.com/chelsea-fagan/2013/08/for-when-you-think-that-no-one-will-love-you/ . And although I know it doesn't really relate to me as I've never been in a relationship, but certain parts of the read was incredibly close to heart. I'll extract the excerpts and put them here, for I know for sure that I'll come back someday in the future and curse myself for an expired link.
Allow me to rephrase; I'm having bad days. Days when I can't remember what each breath is for, when I can't remember why getting out of bed out of the door out into the world is something people do. Days when I burst into tears spontaneously for no obvious reasons, and days where I'm so numb I keep pinching myself to remember what feeling feels like.
Even now, it is a struggle to get these words out; it seems that my tendency for verbosity has finally got tired of me and took a leave. My one pride and joy, my words, have decided to leave me.
So, in my multiple failures to leave my sanctuary, I began to scroll Tumblr with a passion. Tumblr is my one safe place, where nobody knows me, and I can say whatever I want, like whatever I want, reblog whatever I want without subconsciously fretting about what people would think of me if I did this or that. I could have my petty worries aired out, I could rant with vigour, I could admit that the things I like are sometimes unacceptable. Tumblr was the one place who understands me, and allowed me the space I needed to find who I am. Instead of happy moments of my acquaintances' colourful, inspired, energetic lives, Tumblr was filled with people like myself, and many others with different issues, some also unaccepted by the world. Tumblr became a solace.
But, I digress.
In my apathetic scrolling through Tumblr (because that's usually the state I'm in while on Tumblr), 'love yourself' began to jump out repeatedly at me. This might bring to mind Justin Bieber, but I swear, Bieber doesn't feature on my Tumblr at all. I see him enough on Instagram. But 'love yourself'? 'How can you let others love you if you can't love yourself?' they said. 'You need to love yourself before others can,' they preached. But how does one go about loving oneself?
I've realised that loving myself had become somewhat of an issue with me, some time around the end of 2016. 2017 was an entire year dedicated to myself, giving myself space, letting myself go, allowing myself freedom to express. I wouldn't say I was phenomenally successful at that, but let's just stop at 'improvement'. I'd definitely become much more of a hermit, because oft times I simply am not up for socialising. I found out that I have multiple personalities at different times, switching with no prior warning, with an undetectable pattern to them. I can be the very definition of a social butterfly, and suddenly close up like a clam the next minute, for no obvious reasons. I could put on masks and be the mask when the situation calls for it, the very definition of 'fake it till you make it', but when it all ends, when it's time for the mask to come down, there's a prolonged period of identity confusion--who am I actually? Is the mask I wear my actual identity, or has the mask become me?
There were good times in 2017, but in the freedom I allowed myself, I found parts of myself that I didn't want to face.
I didn't know who I am. I still don't. I would like to say that I've understood myself more compared to when I was 17, but that would be both truth and lies at the same time. For the more I found out about myself, the more I was befuddled by it.
I don't know what I want. I hate people who are passionate sometimes, who have dreams and places they want to be. Who knows their future, who knows who they are, who knows their dreams and destinations, whatever they may be. I watched The Greatest Showman recently, and while 'A Million Dreams' is incredible, it is also a lie for me. For no such passion and dreams exist for me. While I may lie in bed at night, kept awake, it is not by 'the brightest colours' nor is it the 'million dreams' that haunts me. I am kept awake by uncertainty. Doubts. Fear. Anxious thoughts about not being to be clear-minded the next day simply because I'm not able to sleep.
And these things are so minor, I believe everybody has them. So why are they bugging me so much? To the point where I cease to function, and has to rely on masks to keep pushing through. I love long drives, with only me behind the wheel, no one else in the car, with no destination in mind. Because it is only then that I can be unencumbered by the need to find an answer, and the need for masks. I don't have to answer to anybody, and I can keep on lying to myself.
Gah I keep digressing.
Everybody has these issues. But I don't see them being burdened by them. I don't see them blowing it way out of proportion and having it consume their lives. My friends are cheerful, good-hearted people that I can never be. Instead of being petty, short-tempered, insecure, and oft times irresponsible to the point of shutting the world out, my friends are generous, good hearted, cheerful people who welcome the world with open arms. Some of them don't see it, but they are. And they keep going with smiles on their faces.
I understand that nobody airs out their troubles on their faces all the time. I understand that. I know that they must have times of doubt and fear and insecurity, just like I do. I am not special in that sense, no. But where are they drawing strength from? To keep on going like that? I am crumbling more often, requiring more space to myself so that I can let myself go, and keeping a smile on my face is drawing much more strength than I can handle.
GAH. THE POINT OF THIS POST IS NOW SO FAR AWAY THAT I HAVE TO TAKE A SPACESHIP AND SEND IT THROUGH A BLACKHOLE TO RETRIEVE IT.
No. The point of this post is not to whine and cry about my issues. It is about my discovery that I can't find a reason why I'm lovable.
Perhaps that's the reason I keep gravitating back to the few people I know for sure who likes me (even though they'd probably gotten tired of me, and wish I would stop being so clingy). Instead of making new acquaintances and having to worry about impressing them enough to like me.
Because what's there about me to like? Why would anybody like me?
I'm not particularly pretty, no. I'm not tall enough, or slim enough, or even proportioned correctly. I have troubles buying clothes because while everybody's bodies are different, mine is just different enough to give me shopping troubles. I'm not like some of my friends who attracts people the way the sun attracts everything, cheerful, optimistic, all genuine smiles and encouragement and witty retorts. I'm not confident at all in my abilities, or in myself as a person, to be good and encouraging and competent (although I fake it all the time, to the point where sometimes I forget that it's all fake--but that's a good thing no? It is, until some innocent comment tears it all down without warning and you're suddenly awakened to the fact that it is all pretend)
I could go on and on about my stupid insecurities. But that's not why I'm here.
One of the Tumblr posts said, with infinite wisdom, to write down just one thing, every day, one thing that you like about yourself. One thing that you think could be lovable about yourself.
I tried.
I did.
But I couldn't find one thing to love.
Wait, that's not entirely true. I love my ability to spin illusions out of words, and see worlds from words. It is my only solace so far, the ability to escape reality into worlds spun from words. And I love that about myself, but only because it lets me hide. I really don't see why others might like that ability on me, though.
Gaah. I don't know why I'm writing this anyway. So what there's nothing I could find about myself to love? So what if I can't write down a single thing that's lovable about me?
I couldn't even write down reasons to live beyond my family. It seems that life doesn't hold much for me right now. Even fanfiction is slowly losing its appeal. I miss those days when I picked up new interests like monkeys pick up bananas. Nothing can hold my genuine attention for long now. I spend most of my time alternating between trying to find new fanfiction to read, and lying in bed either falling asleep at inopportune moments, or trying to fall asleep when I should be asleep.
If anybody's reading this, even the future me, please enlighten me.
Why am I lovable?
(It sounds like I'm fishing for compliments, doesn't it? It does. Perhaps this entire post should be deleted anyway. I bounced around so many times around so many points that I'll be surprised if any of it made sense.)
___________________________________________________________________________
" "I love you" will mean nights staying up watching someone sleep next to you, wondering why they haven't left you already, wondering when they will. It means having to be naken with them with the lights all the way up, stinging every dimpled plane of your body with unforgiving clarity. It means having to take the risk that, as has happened so many times before, you will be disappointed. you will be proven wrong. You will live the reality of that fear you always have, the fear where they wake up one day and look in the mirror and say " What was I doing here? I could do so, so much better than this. "
So you have chosen aloneness. You have chosen the security and the relative freedom of solitude, because there is no risk involved. You can stay up every night and watch your TV shows and eat ice cream out of the box and scroll through your Tumblr and never let your brain sit still, not even for a moment. You can fill your days up with books and coffees and trips to the store where you forget what you wanted the second you walk in the automatic sliding door. You can do so many little, pointless things throughout the day that all you can think of is how badly you want to sleep, how heacy your whole body is, how much your feet hurt. You can wear yourself out again and again on the pavement, and you do, and it feels good."
"Sometimes, you think that no one has ever loved you. You have almost flippantly doubted it, even when someone was saying it to you. Even if they are saying it to you today. Because, though you wouldn't like to admit it, you're not terribly sure you love yourself. You reject all of the simpering notions in beauty magazines and you learn to say nice things about yourself when you look in the mirror. If someone asked, you could provide an objective list of your qualities. But you're not sure that 'loving yourself' is something you ever really learned how to do.
Sometimes you wonder if everyone is faking it, even the people who seem to have it all down to a science."
"Because you've never looked at yourself and felt blown away by the privilege of being in your own body, of having your own mind, of living your life. You've never felt that thrilling infatuation, that deep connection, that shit-eating grin kind of pride. Not about yourself. "
"And maybe that's it, after all, this fear that no one will ever truly feel about you the way you want to be felt about. Maybe what you want is someone to make you love yourself, to put sense into all that positive rhetoric, to make it so the aloneness of TC and blasting music in your ears at all times isn't the most happy place you can think of. Maybe you want someone who makes you so sure of how wonderful things are that you cannot help but to tell them your feelings first, even at the risk of being humiliated. Because you will know that, when you're telling them you love them, what you're really saying is "I love who I become when I am with you." "
___________________________________________________________________________
That's basically the entire article. GAH.
Sunday, January 7, 2018
Alone
There are some moments when all I feel like doing is cry. For no reason at all.
It comes on suddenly, builds to a crescendo, and wraps around my entire being. And it keeps building. And I don't know why it happens, I don't know how to stop. All I know is, the more I fight it, the more it builds, and the worse the fall. Allowing tears to fall became a necessary weakness.
Every tear brings down a wave and soothes away the ache.
Some times people try to soothe this ache. But I don't know how to react, I don't know how to show weakness to them. And I became a hurricane to throw them away before the pressure throws me away. And the tears fall when I'm alone.
I lament about being lonely, when I'm surrounded by people waiting to help. I don't know how to let them in. I've never thought of myself as stubborn. But I'm starting to think I am. Stubborn about looking invulnerable. Insisting that I'm indestructable.
I am lonely, because I don't know how not to be.
Sunday, August 27, 2017
I Don't Have A Problem
I was in Psychiatry posting when I saw a shadow of myself in my textbook. ICD-10 criterias flooded my brain as I struggled to comprehend that what I was experiencing was something people go to the doctor for.
But I don't have a problem.
These symptoms, they're just coincidence. They're severe. Mine's just...mild. Doesn't even fit criteria, strictly speaking. Panic attacks? Nah; those are terrible, like heart attacks and you stop functioning. I function just well. I passed my exams, with honors, didn't I? Worry, fear, muscle tension, irritable, sleeping problems; well, I'm in medschool, darling; exams are like water here. Fast heartbeat, dizziness, shaking hands; well, I'm slightly anemic, aren't I?
So, nah. I don't have a problem.
I don't.
It's just...
Sometimes I can't breathe. Not being able to breathe, your heart in your throat, throbbing, pounding, like it's trying to escape from your mouth, wanting to throw up but nothing's coming up except for fresh burning acid, hands shaking so bad I can't comb my hair I can't tie it up can't even pick up a piece of freaking paper goddamn it and all I could do is to curl up and try to breathe, frightened to the ends of my hair, wanting to cry but my eyes are too preoccupied with being scared and my breath too short to do anything but gasp.
Sometimes I have a to-do list longer than I am tall and I crane my neck so hard to reach the first item on the list but realise that I cannot see the items, and time is running out and I try to move on to the next item but all they do is run around and making me chase after them, and occasionally I get a hold of one of them long enough to complete half the task before it frees itself and I'm left exhausted and terrified and anxious at the end of the day wondering why nothing ever gets done even though I've gone at it every single second of the day.
Sometimes it's like having a recorder on replay constantly inside my brain, reminding me of deadlines and things that need to be done, and what would happen if you did not complete them and you need to finish reading up on appendicitis dammit and class is at 8am it's already 7.30am and you're still at home why did you wake up so late what if you can't find parking what if everybody's already there waiting for you; and don't forget to get meat and vegetables or you'll have to eat outside and god knows how many calories are in those fried food damn it all to hell what a failure you incompetent useless milksop worthy of nothing can't even go to the grocery store and buy freaking milk you'll just end up with osteoporosis and break all your bones when you're old then what are you even good for then
Sometimes I feel like I pay too much attention to myself the way I move the way I speak and each sentence and each laugh and each smile is carefully calculated for the best effect, tailored for the audience, just like drama class where you're given an emotion and you do your best to go into the right mindset for it and you twist your face and body to fit the profile and I've always been good at it, so why am I second-guessing my acting skills now, it used to be as easy as breathing but now everything just feels so fake and stiff and made up and I need to make it more natural I need to make other people believe this is how I feel while inside I'm shrivelling up in hate for having to be such a faker but I can't help it it's too instinctual to don this acting like an armour what does it even mean to 'be yourself' I haven't been 'myself' in ages, can't even remember how it felt to not be acting
Sometimes I have an inner camera going on playing back, in real time, every single thing I say every single move I make every laugh I fake every smile I paste, and wondering if anybody is seeing through this mask what they are thinking, because what if I'm too quiet and they think I'm being difficult or worse, ungrateful, what if they're having too much difficulty trying to talk to me what if they decide that it's not worth that much effort and what if I'm left all alone with only myself for company but that's not too bad to be honest because then I won't have to worry about being accepted being good enough but seriously why do I care so much?
Sometimes it's making plans to meet friends because if I don't keep contact I'll lose them and then where would I be, but regretting making plans because I don't want to do this to put on a layer of something and to measure responses and to think of conversation topics and it's so tiring I hope someone cancels or something emergency comes up and I have an excuse to not go, and hating myself for thinking that because you ungrateful little shit. And going out and actually enjoying myself even though sometimes smiles and laughs felt a little forced but dammit at least be grateful you had a few good near-genuine ones, did you think you'll get these good moments alone in your room at least now you're relatively back in the loop you selfish little shit, and the time spent together was so much better than I expected, and reaching home and suddenly feeling drained as if feeling happy was a concept my body doesn't understand and has to work to get there.
Sometimes it's avoiding everything avoiding work avoiding people and all I want to do all I can do is curl up in my nest of blankets and Tommy and I wish to never wake up so that I don't have to face all these; just wanting to indulge in a lazy Sunday, even though I know that any minute now the guilt will hit the sense of utter incompetence will hit and you lazy useless thing can't even make it through one single chapter everybody will know you're a failure nobody will want you you can't even make it out of your bed won't even make the effort to keep contact to meet people to stop this isolation why would anybody still want to be your friend all you do is use and use and use others while you laze around like a floppy invertebrate but you lay around waiting for it anyway because all you want is a single quiet moment to yourself.
Sometimes I stay up all night because I can't sleep, and the brain refuses to shut up refuses to shut down refuses to stop refuses to pause and just replays each and every single mistake every single word every single sentence I've said and analyse it to death wondering what could have been done better scheduled better what I could have said what I shouldn't have said what I could have done otherwise why can't I freaking sleep it's 3am and I need to be up by 6am for a shower don't want to smell don't want to look like a vagabond and need to be punctual for class but I'm always late anyway don't even know why I try
Sometimes I just stay in the car alone wondering if everyone else goes through this too and how do they make it look so easy going through all this how do they smile and laugh all the time and feel it and mean it, when all I could feel is a shadow of it, or have I been acting so long that it all feels faked even when it's real and I can't tell what's real and what's not, or am I just paying too much attention to this, and what's my purpose in life anyway if nothing can make me truly happy (but that's not true; I'm happy when I read fanfiction the characters speak to me and when they are happy I'm happy but I'm also jealous and resentful at the same time, because why can they have it but I can't; you idiot they are all made up characters, fictional, and a product of imagination and dreams; and what do you write about if not things you cannot have) why am I even here if all I achieve everyday is a big fat nothing just one step after another where is the bloody destination
There are days when all I want to do is curl up and cry, until my tears run dry and my throat is burning from the spasms of muffled sobs and throbbing of a displaced heart.
There are days when all I want is to stay asleep and never wake up so that I don't need to feel all these.
There are days when all I want is for deadlines to disappear, to have no tasks, to not have it all hanging, to be simply incompetent and unproductive and be okay with it.
There are days when all I want is to not feel so alone and for someone to hug me so tight it hurts like hell to remind me that I'm still here and for pain to be physical instead of something abstract so at least I can fight it I can make it stop.
And then there are better days when they don't hit as frequently, and those surprise moments where you actually feel the smile or the laughter that bubbles up accidentally, and your hands don't shake your heart doesn't pound your head is clear your breaths come deep and easy and you're so relieved and you go off into dreamland the minute your head touches the pillow.
Better days when you're okay with not achieving anything because you're no superwoman and allowed off days, when you could eat without worrying about the weighing scale or the layer of belly fat around my waist because eff it you can hide the belly fat and freaking cheat days, when you just give up on trying to portray yourself as little miss perfect and eff it all nobody is perfect and you're finally free.
Days when Tommy doesn't even seem inviting, and going out with friends aren't a chore or a constant strain on your acting gene, and you feel like you could 'be yourself' whatever that means, and you don't even care what 'be yourself' means because you're comfortable for once and feel like you belong, finally.
But a tiny little trigger and it all comes tumbling back, like a house of cards in a hurricane.
A single comment. One little word. Narrowed eyes. A frown.
Just a tiny single breath would set it off.
It doesn't let go. It doesn't go away. I don't think it ever does. Even now, when I'm much more content in my own skin, much better at coping, so much better at being less insecure, it lurks underneath the surface like a shark, waiting for a scent. It lies in hiding, lurking, waiting for your most vulnerable spot to reveal itself.
And it pounces.
It never goes away. I don't know what sets it off. I don't know when it comes. I don't know how it comes. I don't know how to avoid it.
All I can do is learn to cope better.
There's good in this though. I learnt to be grateful. To appreciate every single breath which doesn't require effort. Every single heartbeat which doesn't make itself known. Every night when my body and brain is on the same page with exhaustion and sleep comes easy. Every single moment when I felt comfortable in my own skin. Every single task I complete. Every quiet alone moment which doesn't feel lonely or suffocating. Every friend I feel comfortable with, that I don't need to walk on eggshells around. Every moment that I don't need to tiptoe around. Every moment that I don't have to be on high alert.
So. Yeah.
But I don't have a problem.
These symptoms, they're just coincidence. They're severe. Mine's just...mild. Doesn't even fit criteria, strictly speaking. Panic attacks? Nah; those are terrible, like heart attacks and you stop functioning. I function just well. I passed my exams, with honors, didn't I? Worry, fear, muscle tension, irritable, sleeping problems; well, I'm in medschool, darling; exams are like water here. Fast heartbeat, dizziness, shaking hands; well, I'm slightly anemic, aren't I?
So, nah. I don't have a problem.
I don't.
It's just...
Sometimes I can't breathe. Not being able to breathe, your heart in your throat, throbbing, pounding, like it's trying to escape from your mouth, wanting to throw up but nothing's coming up except for fresh burning acid, hands shaking so bad I can't comb my hair I can't tie it up can't even pick up a piece of freaking paper goddamn it and all I could do is to curl up and try to breathe, frightened to the ends of my hair, wanting to cry but my eyes are too preoccupied with being scared and my breath too short to do anything but gasp.
Sometimes I have a to-do list longer than I am tall and I crane my neck so hard to reach the first item on the list but realise that I cannot see the items, and time is running out and I try to move on to the next item but all they do is run around and making me chase after them, and occasionally I get a hold of one of them long enough to complete half the task before it frees itself and I'm left exhausted and terrified and anxious at the end of the day wondering why nothing ever gets done even though I've gone at it every single second of the day.Sometimes it's like having a recorder on replay constantly inside my brain, reminding me of deadlines and things that need to be done, and what would happen if you did not complete them and you need to finish reading up on appendicitis dammit and class is at 8am it's already 7.30am and you're still at home why did you wake up so late what if you can't find parking what if everybody's already there waiting for you; and don't forget to get meat and vegetables or you'll have to eat outside and god knows how many calories are in those fried food damn it all to hell what a failure you incompetent useless milksop worthy of nothing can't even go to the grocery store and buy freaking milk you'll just end up with osteoporosis and break all your bones when you're old then what are you even good for then
Sometimes I feel like I pay too much attention to myself the way I move the way I speak and each sentence and each laugh and each smile is carefully calculated for the best effect, tailored for the audience, just like drama class where you're given an emotion and you do your best to go into the right mindset for it and you twist your face and body to fit the profile and I've always been good at it, so why am I second-guessing my acting skills now, it used to be as easy as breathing but now everything just feels so fake and stiff and made up and I need to make it more natural I need to make other people believe this is how I feel while inside I'm shrivelling up in hate for having to be such a faker but I can't help it it's too instinctual to don this acting like an armour what does it even mean to 'be yourself' I haven't been 'myself' in ages, can't even remember how it felt to not be acting
Sometimes it's making plans to meet friends because if I don't keep contact I'll lose them and then where would I be, but regretting making plans because I don't want to do this to put on a layer of something and to measure responses and to think of conversation topics and it's so tiring I hope someone cancels or something emergency comes up and I have an excuse to not go, and hating myself for thinking that because you ungrateful little shit. And going out and actually enjoying myself even though sometimes smiles and laughs felt a little forced but dammit at least be grateful you had a few good near-genuine ones, did you think you'll get these good moments alone in your room at least now you're relatively back in the loop you selfish little shit, and the time spent together was so much better than I expected, and reaching home and suddenly feeling drained as if feeling happy was a concept my body doesn't understand and has to work to get there.
Sometimes it's avoiding everything avoiding work avoiding people and all I want to do all I can do is curl up in my nest of blankets and Tommy and I wish to never wake up so that I don't have to face all these; just wanting to indulge in a lazy Sunday, even though I know that any minute now the guilt will hit the sense of utter incompetence will hit and you lazy useless thing can't even make it through one single chapter everybody will know you're a failure nobody will want you you can't even make it out of your bed won't even make the effort to keep contact to meet people to stop this isolation why would anybody still want to be your friend all you do is use and use and use others while you laze around like a floppy invertebrate but you lay around waiting for it anyway because all you want is a single quiet moment to yourself.Sometimes I stay up all night because I can't sleep, and the brain refuses to shut up refuses to shut down refuses to stop refuses to pause and just replays each and every single mistake every single word every single sentence I've said and analyse it to death wondering what could have been done better scheduled better what I could have said what I shouldn't have said what I could have done otherwise why can't I freaking sleep it's 3am and I need to be up by 6am for a shower don't want to smell don't want to look like a vagabond and need to be punctual for class but I'm always late anyway don't even know why I try
Sometimes I just stay in the car alone wondering if everyone else goes through this too and how do they make it look so easy going through all this how do they smile and laugh all the time and feel it and mean it, when all I could feel is a shadow of it, or have I been acting so long that it all feels faked even when it's real and I can't tell what's real and what's not, or am I just paying too much attention to this, and what's my purpose in life anyway if nothing can make me truly happy (but that's not true; I'm happy when I read fanfiction the characters speak to me and when they are happy I'm happy but I'm also jealous and resentful at the same time, because why can they have it but I can't; you idiot they are all made up characters, fictional, and a product of imagination and dreams; and what do you write about if not things you cannot have) why am I even here if all I achieve everyday is a big fat nothing just one step after another where is the bloody destination
There are days when all I want to do is curl up and cry, until my tears run dry and my throat is burning from the spasms of muffled sobs and throbbing of a displaced heart.
There are days when all I want is to stay asleep and never wake up so that I don't need to feel all these.
There are days when all I want is for deadlines to disappear, to have no tasks, to not have it all hanging, to be simply incompetent and unproductive and be okay with it.
There are days when all I want is to not feel so alone and for someone to hug me so tight it hurts like hell to remind me that I'm still here and for pain to be physical instead of something abstract so at least I can fight it I can make it stop.
And then there are better days when they don't hit as frequently, and those surprise moments where you actually feel the smile or the laughter that bubbles up accidentally, and your hands don't shake your heart doesn't pound your head is clear your breaths come deep and easy and you're so relieved and you go off into dreamland the minute your head touches the pillow.
Better days when you're okay with not achieving anything because you're no superwoman and allowed off days, when you could eat without worrying about the weighing scale or the layer of belly fat around my waist because eff it you can hide the belly fat and freaking cheat days, when you just give up on trying to portray yourself as little miss perfect and eff it all nobody is perfect and you're finally free.
Days when Tommy doesn't even seem inviting, and going out with friends aren't a chore or a constant strain on your acting gene, and you feel like you could 'be yourself' whatever that means, and you don't even care what 'be yourself' means because you're comfortable for once and feel like you belong, finally.
But a tiny little trigger and it all comes tumbling back, like a house of cards in a hurricane.
A single comment. One little word. Narrowed eyes. A frown.
Just a tiny single breath would set it off.
It doesn't let go. It doesn't go away. I don't think it ever does. Even now, when I'm much more content in my own skin, much better at coping, so much better at being less insecure, it lurks underneath the surface like a shark, waiting for a scent. It lies in hiding, lurking, waiting for your most vulnerable spot to reveal itself.
And it pounces.
All I can do is learn to cope better.
There's good in this though. I learnt to be grateful. To appreciate every single breath which doesn't require effort. Every single heartbeat which doesn't make itself known. Every night when my body and brain is on the same page with exhaustion and sleep comes easy. Every single moment when I felt comfortable in my own skin. Every single task I complete. Every quiet alone moment which doesn't feel lonely or suffocating. Every friend I feel comfortable with, that I don't need to walk on eggshells around. Every moment that I don't need to tiptoe around. Every moment that I don't have to be on high alert.
So. Yeah.
I don't have a problem.
I just have some insecurities, just stressed out, and need to work on being not lazy, and need to be more competent study more work harder be less lazy, to learn to not be so dramatic--life ain't a drama. . I just need to learn to cope with stress. I just need to learn to be okay alone.
Just need to do some growing up.
Blind
He was young, frail,
in need of protection
Mother Earth, in her grace and gentleness
allowed him Her kindness
sang him to sleep with the soft humming from her belly
fed him to satiety with tears of happiness
rocked him to peaceful with the gentle shifting of her legs
Slowly and surely he grew strong, sure-footed, mighty
Stretching his roots, rustling his leaves
Raised with tears and sweat and blood
He was Her pride, Her joy, Her love
Her child.
But he grew
his roots slowly sinking deeper and deeper
digging, stabbing, spearing Her fleshy womb
leeching off Her tears of pain and hurt
proudly rustling his branches as She writhed
She bleeds in the dead of night, a slow trickle, as Her child slowly reached for the skies.
and still She gives.
and still She loves.
For what is Love if not blind?
in need of protection
Mother Earth, in her grace and gentleness
allowed him Her kindness
sang him to sleep with the soft humming from her belly
fed him to satiety with tears of happiness
rocked him to peaceful with the gentle shifting of her legs
Slowly and surely he grew strong, sure-footed, mighty
Stretching his roots, rustling his leaves
Raised with tears and sweat and blood
He was Her pride, Her joy, Her love
Her child.
But he grew
his roots slowly sinking deeper and deeper
digging, stabbing, spearing Her fleshy womb
leeching off Her tears of pain and hurt
proudly rustling his branches as She writhed
She bleeds in the dead of night, a slow trickle, as Her child slowly reached for the skies.
and still She gives.
and still She loves.
For what is Love if not blind?
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
To Love
Try as I may, I cannot forget
The pull of your skin against my skin
As it scrapes across
Inside my wrist
Tiny kisses that linger
Long after your sheets turned cold
I want
So much to love
To crawl inside your arms and never leave
Rest my cheek against the planes of warmth
thump thump thump
The angry drive of want
Try as I may, I cannot forget
Our fights
As well as our kisses
Vicious, two animals fighting
For ground
A ground we wanted together, but could not share
I long
For your touch;
Rough, heavy, punishing; bordering on possessive
As we lick our wounds
To want so much that I lose control
To be wanted so much that you lose control
Try, as I may, I cannot love
Not the way I wanted to love you;
Gently, the wings of a dragonfly on still water, barely rippling the surface
Softly, a mother's kiss on her newborn's brow, barely denting the skin
Tenderly, a girl's hand in her man's, intertwined, bared for all to see.
The pull of your skin against my skin
As it scrapes across
Inside my wrist
Tiny kisses that linger
Long after your sheets turned cold
I want
So much to love
To crawl inside your arms and never leave
Rest my cheek against the planes of warmth
thump thump thump
The angry drive of want
Try as I may, I cannot forget
Our fights
As well as our kisses
Vicious, two animals fighting
For ground
A ground we wanted together, but could not share
I long
For your touch;
Rough, heavy, punishing; bordering on possessive
As we lick our wounds
To want so much that I lose control
To be wanted so much that you lose control
Try, as I may, I cannot love
Not the way I wanted to love you;
Gently, the wings of a dragonfly on still water, barely rippling the surface
Softly, a mother's kiss on her newborn's brow, barely denting the skin
Tenderly, a girl's hand in her man's, intertwined, bared for all to see.
I want to love you so much
But all we do is tear, crash and destruct
And build walls around what's left of ourselves.
Friday, August 11, 2017
Midnight : Ramblings
Sometimes I wonder if I overthink things. Some things are meant to be simple. I think.
But I can't help it when my mind goes into overdrive. Is the silence awkward? Should I fill the silence? What should I fill it with? Would they be offended if I just sat there and not talk because I don't feel like talking? Would they feel uncomfortable if I ask them out but proceed to sit quietly instead of engaging verbally?
Because I know I would. I would be uncomfortable if the silences grow long and awkward. I would be offended if they ask me out just to look at them stare at their phones.
But that's what I feel like doing sometimes. To just sit silently in each other's presence, basking in the ease of silence. Sometimes I just want to sit quietly and watch people talk. And when things start to get awkward, my phone becomes a shield.
So how can I fault others when I do the same?
Or do other people don't care this much, and I'm just overthinking stuff and being an idiot, as usual?
Most hurts, I've come to realise, stem from me thinking too far in advance, too much in advance. Preparing for something that hasn't even been confirmed. Planning too far ahead for people who probably didn't even intend on that much itinerary. Caring too much for people who just don't really feel you're important enough. It all only ends in disappointment; the dull throbbing emptiness and hurt.
I've always had trouble in maintaining relationships. I ... lose contact. I become too lazy to keep in touch. I'm bad with communicating what I really want. And when finally the opportunity presents itself for a reconnection, I find that we've become too different, too far. And my laziness and fear and anxiety takes over, and there goes the relationship.
I analyze and morph and analyze and morph again, trying to appease everybody. It's so instinctual and I hate it but I have to constantly remind myself to not overdo it and everything becomes even more complicated and not at all natural. Where is the line, what's overdoing it, what's being an indelicate arsehole, what's being a stage player in his own show, what's caring too much, what'll risk me ending up as a foolish idiot who overestimated her importance.
And so, sometimes, I lose contact because I can't find the naturalness anymore. That's is why certain conversations are precious to me; for they require near zero effort and I can be free.
I suppose my self imposed solitude had negative effects; I'd become too lax in the government of my emotions. I'd swing between the extremes of putting on a show and hiding all my emotions and true needs behind a mask, and laying it all splayed out for the world to see regardless of anybody else's feelings about it.
I'm an actor, born and bred. I suppose it's a side effect of being an overachiever. We act, and show others what they want to see, and hide away all the gory parts in the dark corners of our cupboards.
And so, I act, whether I like it or not. And recently, my acting antennae is malfunxtioning. I can't judge which mask to put on, which role to play, which disguise to wear anymore. It may possibly be the results of prolonged solitude, of me being rid of the need to act for too long. Good thing, or bad? I can't tell.
All I can tell you is, few people are precious to me, because our conversations are natural, effortless ( though I must confess, that I fend much better behind the shield of written words, for if I'm exposed to facial expressions, it's instinctual to read and adapt -- my actor side escapes.).
But fewer still, of these people, who I can feel comfortably silent with; whom I can feel safe with. Safe from abandonment. Safe from awkward silences. Safe from unequal sense of importance. Safe.
So how would I ever find that special someone?
I don't want to be the single friend who third wheels everyone. I don't want to be the only one cuddling a pillow when watching romcoms. I don't want to be holding my own hands while everybody around me clings to each other.
But j don't want to be rushing. I don't want to be in a special relationship just for he sake of it. I don't want to force myself through awkwardness and general unease. I don't want it to be uncomfortable.
I don't... I don't know what I want.
Maybe it doesn't have to be complicated. Maybe it's not about matching interests. Maybe it's not about conversational topics. Maybe it's of clicking and the je ne sais quoi. Maybe it's of feeling comfortable and on edge.
Maybe it's just about throwing caution to the wind and taking a step.
But I'm not ready for that.
But I can't help it when my mind goes into overdrive. Is the silence awkward? Should I fill the silence? What should I fill it with? Would they be offended if I just sat there and not talk because I don't feel like talking? Would they feel uncomfortable if I ask them out but proceed to sit quietly instead of engaging verbally?
Because I know I would. I would be uncomfortable if the silences grow long and awkward. I would be offended if they ask me out just to look at them stare at their phones.
But that's what I feel like doing sometimes. To just sit silently in each other's presence, basking in the ease of silence. Sometimes I just want to sit quietly and watch people talk. And when things start to get awkward, my phone becomes a shield.
So how can I fault others when I do the same?
Or do other people don't care this much, and I'm just overthinking stuff and being an idiot, as usual?
Most hurts, I've come to realise, stem from me thinking too far in advance, too much in advance. Preparing for something that hasn't even been confirmed. Planning too far ahead for people who probably didn't even intend on that much itinerary. Caring too much for people who just don't really feel you're important enough. It all only ends in disappointment; the dull throbbing emptiness and hurt.
I've always had trouble in maintaining relationships. I ... lose contact. I become too lazy to keep in touch. I'm bad with communicating what I really want. And when finally the opportunity presents itself for a reconnection, I find that we've become too different, too far. And my laziness and fear and anxiety takes over, and there goes the relationship.
I analyze and morph and analyze and morph again, trying to appease everybody. It's so instinctual and I hate it but I have to constantly remind myself to not overdo it and everything becomes even more complicated and not at all natural. Where is the line, what's overdoing it, what's being an indelicate arsehole, what's being a stage player in his own show, what's caring too much, what'll risk me ending up as a foolish idiot who overestimated her importance.
And so, sometimes, I lose contact because I can't find the naturalness anymore. That's is why certain conversations are precious to me; for they require near zero effort and I can be free.
I suppose my self imposed solitude had negative effects; I'd become too lax in the government of my emotions. I'd swing between the extremes of putting on a show and hiding all my emotions and true needs behind a mask, and laying it all splayed out for the world to see regardless of anybody else's feelings about it.
I'm an actor, born and bred. I suppose it's a side effect of being an overachiever. We act, and show others what they want to see, and hide away all the gory parts in the dark corners of our cupboards.
And so, I act, whether I like it or not. And recently, my acting antennae is malfunxtioning. I can't judge which mask to put on, which role to play, which disguise to wear anymore. It may possibly be the results of prolonged solitude, of me being rid of the need to act for too long. Good thing, or bad? I can't tell.
All I can tell you is, few people are precious to me, because our conversations are natural, effortless ( though I must confess, that I fend much better behind the shield of written words, for if I'm exposed to facial expressions, it's instinctual to read and adapt -- my actor side escapes.).
But fewer still, of these people, who I can feel comfortably silent with; whom I can feel safe with. Safe from abandonment. Safe from awkward silences. Safe from unequal sense of importance. Safe.
So how would I ever find that special someone?
I don't want to be the single friend who third wheels everyone. I don't want to be the only one cuddling a pillow when watching romcoms. I don't want to be holding my own hands while everybody around me clings to each other.
But j don't want to be rushing. I don't want to be in a special relationship just for he sake of it. I don't want to force myself through awkwardness and general unease. I don't want it to be uncomfortable.
I don't... I don't know what I want.
Maybe it doesn't have to be complicated. Maybe it's not about matching interests. Maybe it's not about conversational topics. Maybe it's of clicking and the je ne sais quoi. Maybe it's of feeling comfortable and on edge.
Maybe it's just about throwing caution to the wind and taking a step.
But I'm not ready for that.
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