Abandonment

From innocent confessions in normal conversation that tell you exactly how little you matter to the other party, to long speeches of "it's not you, it's me" uttered to clear an unstable conscience before extinguishing any glimmer of hope that might exist of them staying. By now, I've learned that abandonment comes both when you least expect it and when you've been expecting it from the get go.

Some might call it a self-fulfilling prophecy, or acting to reflect your low standards, thus allowing people who step on your pride to leave and welcoming them back whenever they please. Well, I never thought of myself as privileged enough to act "heavy" or "hard to get"...I always thought this will add to the perception of me being a cutthroat bitch that I've been trying to shake for some time. I ask for a fraction of what I'm willing to give, and it always seems a little too much anyway.

There will always be unfavorable circumstances that get in the way of every meaningful human interaction, and when it comes to either fighting them or leaving, the easier option is always to leave. And I understand. I can't not understand. But I want to know what it feels like to be someone who's worth fighting for. It's desperate and pathetic and a little disgusting to blurt out, begging not to be taken for granted. I'm just a bit tired of being a form of excess, it wears down the soul to the point where it becomes a belief about oneself. And I don't want to believe that.

Purpose (23rd birthday post)

Sometimes I wonder what the use for a sense of purpose is, whether our primitive brains have way too much time on their metaphorical and literal hands after our ancestors helped us escape the woes of a feral life and tribal wars, and now we're left wondering about things that are partially comprehensible and entirely optional to our survival.

I wonder because I'm perpetually dissatisfied with my life, nothing comes naturally to me like fidgeting for ways to have more of what I crave; purpose, love, and achievement. I'm always anxious about not being enough, about not striving enough to have more security that will ideally put my mind at ease. The people around me are true champions for putting up with that!

 This got me thinking and theorizing, the less a mind is preoccupied by the basic aspects of survival, the more it has time to wallow in questions of purpose and identity. The fewer distractions it entertains, the longer and harder its days pass. The more a mind questions its purpose, the less clear it becomes. It's not a groundbreaking revelation to many, but it's a relevant one to me at this point in time.

 Perhaps the only good-enough distraction to me is falling and being in love. It's the closest thing to magic spells for all the chemistry that goes into making it materialize. I remember the dark days I went through as a teenager deeply and hopelessly in love, but also how I pushed through milestone after milestone with ease when I had a full heart. I achieved so much, felt like I had a reason to wake up every morning and be someone, felt like my existence was justified because it was so entrenched in someone else's...this is something I can't say I have right now.

 Stepping into my 24th year of life, I can't help but wonder for how long I can run on an empty heart and an over-worked mind.

Young and Beautiful

The thought of growing old scares me. And in that, I join the billions of people who are naturally anxious of advancing in age with all the potential health risks and the loss of loved ones and so on.

I just think it's more than that for me. For example, I'm terrified of the inevitable loneliness I'll experience more with the passing of years. And I'm not talking about not having people around, I mean the entrapment in my own psyche that will increase the older I get. How I'll stop being flexible and accepting of new ideas, How difficult it will be changing and adapting to harsh situations that my idealistic self simply wishes away. How simple it will be to hide my fears and hopes to escape ridicule or avoid conflict.

I'm also not really excited about my body aging. I can see how a year can make a difference now that I can see the pounds piling up, or how a cold doesn't go away as fast as it did before, or even the fine lines that are making a statement on my forehead to remind me I'll enjoy wrinkles for the upcoming three fourths of my life.

I'm scared of becoming less desirable...not just as a woman, but also as a person. I can see the way teenagers of 15 look at me now like I'm an old lady when I try to joke with them. It's funny sometimes, but leaves a bitter aftertaste. I'm especially reminded of it when I think a guy is cute just to find out he's a couple (or more) years younger than me, then look myself in the mirror to realize I look even older than my own age. Such a treat finding out people guess my age at 25 when I'm not yet 22.

I could rant about how youth and beauty are overrated, but they're really not. Just ask people who go under the knife to have their sagging skin tightened, or those who get into relationships with others as young as their own children. I feel like I'm spending the prime of my life laden with such thoughts, that I'll look back on it and regret not enjoying youth and beauty while I had them. But what am I to do when I feel like I have them not, even now?

Back (again)

Dear diary,

It's been a long time since I last wrote here. For some reason I was convinced that writing something for everyone to see wouldn't really serve its purpose of letting my thoughts be heard and potentially validated, because I had this nagging idea that no one cared enough to listen. I had grown far more insecure about my style and the elegance of my thoughts and delivery, to the point where I just gave up trying to put them into words.

I'm actually not a writer. And saying this liberates me from all the weight I had put on my own shoulders to be "great" at ranting to what is essentially a public journal. I write because I feel like talking without using my voice and without having someone jump to assumptions in the middle of my sentences. I write because I no longer have patience to sculpt something out of someone's stone-rigid preconceived ideas. I write because I feel like it...and for a long time, I didn't feel like it.

I'll try to free myself from the weight of my own expectations, because some of my ideas now will definitely seem questionable to my own self later. But they're mine now, and I respect myself enough to share them.

Love,
Me

The 2016 Post

Happy New Year everyone!

Typically in posts like these, people write the things they learned in the past year, or list the things they resolve to achieve in the New Year. I’d like to pretend I’m super original and mix both in this following post.

The past two years held a lot of painful memories for me. They showed me that a “normal” healthy person could descend to the depths of hell in what looks like no time at all. I’ve known loss and loneliness all too well, and my emotions got so in control that my brain lost all its power to fight against this darkness. I felt trapped and angered by my entrapment, I felt like I couldn’t fight it for the life of me. The problem is that I isolated myself in the process, making myself all the more vulnerable to that vicious cycle of doom. It made sense in my faulty psyche that pretending I’m doing fine will ward off unwanted offers of help, or even discourage the advances of well-meaning people who would like to be part of my life. I wholeheartedly admit I was wrong. I was wrong and that adamancy delayed my recovery for what felt like ages.

I’m not a hundred percent whole now. I haven’t returned to my old self, whoever that was. But I can say I’m on the path of becoming a more self-aware person, without the deceptions that my anxious brain and shaken emotions fed me. It was a painful process; knowing so much about my own self that made me question everything I knew. My eyes were opened to the whole lot that can go wrong with one’s mind if they surrender to the chaos of it all. I got scared and I continue to get scared by the ugliness that surrounds me, but now I have the conviction that I can undo some of its damage done unto me and unto others.

I can’t say I’m completely past the vulnerability, but I believe with the help of people who truly and altruistically care about me, I’m moving forward. It’s one of those old, worn clichés, but it’s never shameful to ask for help. We’ve all stepped in those same old shoes, and it’s well-established wisdom now that nobody can make it on their own without severely damaging a side or another of their personality. (Please, know how valuable you are to ask for help from even the one person who shows you they care. You’re worth it.)

I think right now the best thing I can vow to myself is to try and care for myself well. I know anxiety and depression can kick in, and I know that some lies I have told myself might not dissipate that easily, but I also know that even the little faith I have in goodness from God and from others is worth something. I know that the worried tone in my mom’s voice, the warm hug from my dog, the annoying jokes my sister tells and the laugh of my dad when I say something funny can make me feel safe and loved. I know that my best friend and only trustworthy gossip-partner is the only reason I smile some days, and the two-hour long meet ups with my second closest friend give me revelations not even ten books provide. I also know that every time a friend cares enough to email me or text me is a reminder that that person cares enough to re-invite me into their life. I now know that we are each other’s anchors in the midst of all the madness.

I pray we all have a happier year, one with bigger and better chances to grow and become a little more helpful to ourselves and to others.