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.

In the Middle

I'm not even sure whether it's me who's in the way of life, or life is in the way of me.
Periods like the one I'm going through are easily dismissed as "transitional;" something that won't last and probably is leading up to something better. But I have to wonder:
Is it real what we, human people, tell ourselves whenever things get too much to handle or life spurs out of control, that "everything will be alright eventually?" Is it not some random things happening to each of us, the bad and the good? If we tally the good and the bad in each of our lives, are they supposed to magically level off?

Self-pity is pathetic, but it's kind of comforting to know that you sympathize with your own self. I mean, right now as I'm feeling in the way of so many lives, so many happinesses, so much going right for people I care about (including my own self), I kind of like the fact that I'm not hating myself for it.
The way I see it, life also is getting in the way of me being a normally functioning human being. I was not made for waking up at 6:15, toiling my way through life without relishing in the sweet taste of meaningful connection with other human beings. The fakery of smiles and giggles to strangers you work or study with, who think they know you because they know your first name is draining. The weeks spent without good company, with no rush or excitement at the prospect of doing something or seeing someone you love is painful.
Monotony is painful. Loss of passion and purpose is painful. Boredom is deadly.

So I ask for help, and what I get is a concoction of tried and tested formulas of how to be a normal person. How to get your rough ends rounded enough to fit in the nice cookie cutter shape of the ambiguous yet weirdly specific good person. A good student, a good daughter, a good God-follower, a good friend, a good whatever-you-fill-in-the-space. The approach that everyone's going for is: "Well, looks like your life is pretty much a cleared piece of land, so why not build it up the way everyone around you wants you to?!" Sure thang! That's a pretty damn awesome plan, collective mind of the peoples!

I had mentioned in a previous post that my attempts to not get in the way previously prevented me from ever breaking rules or rebelling against authority even in my oh-so-vulnerable teenage years. But goodness gracious! It looks like now, at 21, I'm starting to think to hell with everyone!

Okay, okay. Not that drastically. But I'm getting more and more convinced that as long as I'm not actively trying to hurt someone else, I shouldn't worry too much about what people will make out of my life's decisions. Sure, I may do things I regret later, but it's those things that I might remember when I'm old and gray and think: "Man, I used my stupid young person privilege well!"

One of these stupid things is staying up writing till 3:15 on a school night. Oh well.