This was something I’d written more than a few weeks ago, at a phase where everything just feels dark and I was alone, dealing with all the emotional bullshit on my own. This blog has always been a sort of online journal, and I feel bad neglecting it for a while now. I find that it’s probably okay to put this out here because I know that through each process of looking at my life (and recovering, if there’s such a thing like that in life in general), I can look back to this and the succeeding reflections will most likely root back to this one. I think this one is quite uncomfortable to read, but there it goes… it’s mostly just me confronting my emotions. Heh.
Let me ramble here for a while as I try to get to what I really wanted to talk about. I cannot remember when and how it started but I am a person who has always had a perpetual self-hate. If you happen to see me somewhere, you probably won’t approach me unless I am very close to you or I have known you for the longest time. It’s this sitting expression on my face—most people say I look angry all the time. I think they probably just cannot find the words, but I’m very much sure that it could mean that I’m a difficult person. I do believe that I am, with all my heart I know that I am because I have seen it in the many times that I get into an argument with the people closest to me. I am a toxic person, selfish and insensitive and controlling. This self-hate is turning me into a monster directing my anger at the world and to the people around me. I look intact and I probably look capable to you, but I am slowly crumbling inside. I am slowly falling deep, deep down into this kind of void—this emptiness that I have been feeling for a while now. The only taste that I can remember is bitterness.
I cling to the idea of love, not because I am looking for meaning, and certainly not because I think that it will lead me to a certain someone that can ‘save’ me from myself. I cling to the idea of love because it feels like the only possible thing that still links me to this world. Every single time that I think about dying, I think of all the people that have passed by my lifetime and how, at certain point, my love for them and their (possible) love for me have kept me alive. I cling to the idea of love between two people in a drama or in a movie because it is one that I never really witnessed and one that truly changes people for the better. I cling to the idea of love because it feels like the only bridge that really connects people.
And I crave for the connection, every single day. I spend more than eight hours online, enjoying talking to people from across the world about some of my favorite things. Mostly I just talk to myself. But online connection is not exactly a connection. At the end of the day, you go home alone. Tend to your wounds alone. Heal alone. And then you wake up alone. Once again, ready for a battle that you chose to fight.
All these have made me a distant observer, on the outside looking in. And all I can think about is bitterness. For a person whose tendency is to always go inwards and retreat into the solitary comfort which I can control, I am suddenly aware of how much I crave for connection. Every. Single. Day. I look into my friend’s face across that table as we eat, and all I can see is someone’s mind million miles away. I argue with my brother insisting on something without really understanding why I am doing what I’m doing.
I’m a mess. A ball of contradictions and mood swings. A coward. I couldn’t confront my own mistakes. I always make an excuse for myself. I tell someone to do what s/he wants to do only half-meaning it. I am a coward: I couldn’t fight myself not to hate myself. Everything seems so dark and gray and then only briefly bright, and I’m back again to this unending monochrome.
I have so much inside this heart that I want to scream out, and I think I have been screaming out for the longest time. It’s a scream that no one really hears. When I close my eyes, I often see myself as a tropical plant suddenly realizing that I somehow winded up in the middle of the desert. Slowly wilting, only moments from dying.
I am so angry. And I am so bitter. And I wish I can just see red and let it all out and break something or slap someone I hate the most. But none of that has ever come over me. I just see black and gray and a little bit of white. It’s all empty and oftentimes I feel immobilized. This body is moving but I am stuck in time.
I do not believe in things like saving someone. But lately I’ve been thinking if someone can help me save me from myself.
Photo (c) shot from the 2015 Japanese film, Flying Colors.