We are brittle, ashamed, and human

When you live in solitude long enough, there comes a time when you recognize who you truly are. “True”, in the sense “unobscured by others”.

I am not used to taking care of myself. I have more to do since I have to do everything. I am lonely.

In the beginning you could use the solitude as an excuse. But one day you will realize… this is who you are when you are on your own. When everyone has been hidden away from you. When you don’t have anyone to rely on to give you a role, a script, a mask. When you are left alone, vulnerable.

This is who you truly are.

Without any imput from the outside, you become both numb and overly sensitized. With the hard shell holding everything together stripped away, inside the crumbling mess you find pieces of yourself you had hidden away so that no one can see it. Weaknesses. Embarrassment. Shame. Disgust. Surrender and hopelessness.

Fall apart.
So easily… fallen apart.

No one can know. Because if they knew, and they rejected you, you couldn’t live with the pain. Because if they knew, and they embraced you, you will fall apart into pieces. Even now, you are waiting for someone to pick you up and tell you that they love you the way you are. Even now, when you have hidden yourself away from everyone.

Hide. Don’t hide.
Give up. Don’t give up.

Empty. A corpse is so empty and so cold. A lifeless thing. No pain, no pleasure. Give the knife in your pocket a reassuring pat and gather up. Go on living… because life is whatever you think it is. Find comfort in life, in death – wherever you can, however you can. According to your own compass that you build and take apart, build and take apart…

Alone… Together.

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November 2016 – Part II

Friday, November 18th
… Everything is falling apart. The great deconstruction has begun, and I don’t even know why I am doing anything anymore. To forget that, I’ve been medicating myself with The L Word, and now I have to be back in the real world, and I don’t know how to act. Everything feels unreal, and all I can think about is me, me, me. So self-centered…

Sunday, November 20th
… I hate the dark. I can’t believe I forgot how much I hate the dark. … Maybe it’s my winter blues again, but I’m fed up with obsessing about sex & relationship. … I look around & no one in my circle of acquaintances has a functioning relationship. The majority of the people I know lose themselves in the relationship or stay with people who makes them feel insecure & anxious. So far I can see that relationships are not only pain in the ass but also a huge energy-sucking distraction. …

Monday, November 21st
… Along with the will to push forward with my plan despite all the uncertainty is the desire to hide & run away for another degree. The desperation shouting, I’ll stay in Germany! The instinct for immediate security warring against the intuition for risks. Risks I can even consider taking because of my privileges.
I realized that I don’t know humans. I don’t understand them, what is going through their minds, what makes them do certain things.
All these years, I’ve looked at them through the lens of all the narratives I’d gobbled down. But the people in the books are simpler. Less conflicted. They change, or adapt to change, easily. They have two or three big traits that define them – bold, funny, soft-hearted, nice, aloof, insecure, etc. – and none of them has a dusty collection of tiny characteristics that are clumped & dumped together like abandoned toys. They are single-minded in their pursuit, so sure of who they are. They get over traumas easily without having a relapse. They never have socially awkward conversations (unless being awkward is one of their traits) with strangers/acquaintances/friends. Other people trust & like them so easily that I am green with envy. They are rarely lazy. Sometimes there are genuinely nice characters whose niceness doesn’t vanish no matter what is done to them.
They are not humans. They are created by humans as some sort of idols, similar enough to humans but ultimately too good to be real. None of them are messy, disgusting, abhorrent, conflicted about the smallest and the biggest thing.
It’s not easy to be loyal and vulnerable. It’s difficult as fuck to stay true to yourself or even to find yourself. It’s hard to escape the feeling of being an outsider, warranted or not. It’s probably normal to hate the world & everyone in it, because they all sicken you without any reason. We think about, like, and do certain disgusting things. We run away or medicate our pains a lot. We blame other people, we victimize ourselves (although watching Jenny Schecter has shown me how fucking selfish & revolting that be), we become irrational on regular basis.
Goddess, what fucking messes we all are.

Tuesday, November 22nd
The people in my head are translucent paper-people, and I don’t know how to turn them into solid, flesh-and-blood people.
… I tend to be pretty unforgiving towards people – esp. those whom I want to like. Once they are inside my heart, I don’t care as much, but until then…

Thursday, November 24th
My head is a cluttered place; a bleeding wound. I vomit other people’s words out of my ears.
… Being vulnerable – being authentic – is hard. Being self-compassionate is uncomfortable. Engaging with my fears feels like I’m going mad.
… I crave certainty like a drug addict, and yet at the same time, I harbor a disdain for the society’s rules. I want chaos. I already am chaos, but then I lose my head, certain that I will never find my way back to reality.
… I look at the reading log for this year, and 80% of the books I’ve read this year were escapist reads. And I spent a lot of time in front of my laptop, watching movies and TV series. I have been emotionally numbing myself the whole year.
And maybe I haven’t been honest with myself, either. I am happy alone, but at the same time I feel like no one is going to love me. I do want to write, but I am terrified I suck at it. I do like reading, but I am constantly ashamed of my choice of reading materials. I do practise the mindset of enough, but scarcity creeps up on me again and again. I still measure my proud moments against what other people would be impressed by. I am still loathe to disappoint my teachers and professors.
… It’s difficult to see myself as I am, because there are a slew of things I want to become, but can’t do until I accept my current self. Humans are messy and ugly and always, always struggling. I want to create art that captures that struggle. I want to be honest. I want to stop playing a saint and just be my selfish, quirky, lazy, intent, struggling self.

Saturday, November 26th
… [I was at a poetry evening with a friend.] It was held in a studio place with a bit of run-down, starving-artist minimalist look. The people who came – there were many, and we were one of the early ones, so we had an ample time to observe them all – were very diverse in background & looks, but they all knew each other & we didn’t know these people, plus the music was too loud anyway, so we just sat there and looked around a lot. After an hour or so of socializing, some people read aloud their poems, and I liked having this read-and-share movement (also because it gave us a legitimate reason to sit around & not talk), but the poems… and the poets… they didn’t resonate with me at all. It’s definitely a matter of taste, but I couldn’t understand even the vaguest outline of their poems and it sounded like a string of words that conjured up all sorts of weird jumble of images – sexual, guttural, human waste. The theme or the form themselves weren’t disturbing, but what bothered & shook me the most was that I couldn’t feel the writer’s authenticity in their writings (except for one piece). The words felt empty, the whole presentation a cliché, and the art dishonest.
It is true that I am not into this twentysometing’s retro, hip & broke(n), artsy scene. The kind where the past seems to have been appropriated and the past authenticity turned into a grotesque cliché. Scenes where the said twentysomethings smoke pot, talk about having beautiful souls, and sprout Hemingway-esque poems (in the sense that they are vaguely misogynist and so male). … A year ago or less, I would have been intimidated into believing that an artist has to be like that way to be a “true” writer/poet. Maybe I’m being too hasty in my judgment/condemnation, but that’s the impression I had when we left the party. …

Tuesday, November 29th
… Does no one feel like this? Does no adult remember the emptiness? Does no on-the-cusp-of-adult experience this hollow space we call “self”?
… I am very rigid in my ideas of what I want when it comes to work. … Am I being too picky, so drenched in the privilege that I have my sight trained on too high? Or am I so afraid of working that I reject everything, thus deluding myself that I am “looking”, but at the same time still leaving the status quo untouched? …
I act and act and act out whatever I can get my hands on, because if I were to let myself be authentic, I’d probably sprout off some incoherent sentences at random, grin toothily, and scurry away.
… I just hate, hate, hate, HATE dealing with my emotions – there’s a reason why I’ve been numbing them for so long. I am not good at anything; this knowledge hits me like a brick on the back of my head, because my fragile ego had constructed this reassurance precisely to keep myself from this black-out. … And worst of all, I am disinterested in so many things that I can almost hear my neuron pathways dying off. It’s not that I find everything uninspiring or boring; I just don’t have any subject that I would dig into its depth to the center of the earth. …

Wednesday, November 30th
… Winter is the time of the year which I recoil from in the beginning and whose darkness I embrace eventually. Instead of brightening the room as much as possible, I am content with a flickering candlelight limiting my view to only what is right in front of me. Instead of feeling grateful for the technological advancement that allows us comfort (hello – radiators??!), I am annoyed that the city never truly sleeps, that it never lets its occupants recuperate.
I think that always being in search of my identity might be my identity. Perhaps because I had to learn the lesson about the instability of identity earlier than usual, and with more force than usual. Playing the various personas that are probably a part of me, all the while frantically searching for the core of my self, even though I know in the back if my mind that there is no such thing. But the emptiness – or the fragmentation – how to bear if without going mad?
… When we talked about “identity” in my Cultural Studies lecture, I encountered ideas/theories that opposed the Enlightenment notion of a core self. Certainly, how we perceive ourselves change a lot over the years, and I daresay it is influenced by external circumstances… but maybe it is a choice, you know? The characteristics that you choose to let go, and the ones you choose to hold on to. There are of course going to be parts of yourself that you are unaware of.
I feel so conflicted. … I do want to change, because I think change can lead to growth… but a part of me mourns the pieces I will inevitably have to leave behind, pieces that I have to let go in order to embrace new ones. Perhaps a human’s capacity for contradictions is limited. Another part of me, though, is terrified of both letting go and letting in. That part just wants to bury myself in the ground and talk myself into being content where I am right now.

I am enough, not good

What does it mean to be a good person?

Twice in the last seven days I have heard that I am a “good person”. My first reaction in both instances was to deny it. Inside, I was screaming, You just don’t know all the selfish, indifferent, careless sides of me!

It is dangerous for me to get attached to other people’s evaluations of me. Their praises are like drugs – an instant reward to my system, and after the rush has abated, I crave another. Soon my “good deeds” turn into making other people approve of me by becoming whomever they want to see.

For a long time I thought being good was to be selflessness itself, to devote yourself to other people until your body, mind and soul broke. This was the model of goodness I picked up sub-consciously in my culture. During my teenage years and beyond, I would fall into bouts of deep-seated self-loathing because I couldn’t or wouldn’t be this kind of “good”. I felt inadequate, a waste of space and resources. I still fall back to feeling this way sometimes.

It is easier to hate myself than love myself. Easier to criticize than accept. Better to be miserable than happy and guilty.

Because all I had ever wanted was for my imperfect self to be picked up by other people, and soothed, accepted, and loved by them. By displaying a textbook attachment behavior, I was hoping to receive unconditional love. If I couldn’t get love, I wanted pity, or sympathy, or something. That’s a lot of burden to place on any human being, let alone on fellow thirteen-year-olds.

In the end, when I was swimming in the misery and drowning, I started accepting the idea of being enough. That I was enough, just the way I was right now. I picked up my own screaming inner child, soothed her, held her, and promised her I would be with her. I realized that I was the only one who was fully responsible for taking care of myself, and I was also the best candidate for the job, since the need to wear a mask was considerably weaker.

With this new resolution, the definition of being a “good person” also changed. Now the priority lay in taking care of myself first. If I didn’t, I’d be a burden to others, and it would be unfair of me to expect them to pick up the slack. What this “taking care of oneself” contains is different for everyone and you have to decide for yourself. For me, it translates into taking care of my physical needs – sleep, nutrition, exercise (although I am very flexible with this one, haha), health -, setting a boundary to other people’s needs, learning to recognize when I am stressed out and what to do about it, and forgiving myself for being a human.

I am not a good person. But I am enough the way I am.

I try to treat other people the way I want to be treated; I try to be open-minded and understanding; I remind myself that I can’t know what others are feeling or thinking since I haven’t been in their shoes; I try to be helpful where my help is wanted or welcome.

I think there is such a comfort in helping others. It feels good to be needed, because being needed somewhat confirms that our existence isn’t useless or meaningless. However, I don’t want to help others purely to feel good about myself. That’s a selfish ego-gratification. It’s also not true that some disasters will happen without my help. The only thing I want is to make the world a teeny tiny better place, or at least not to make it worse. But the moment my actions become all about pleasing others, I will lose myself.

I am not an emotional person – at least not anymore. I tend to panic and forget myself when I am overwhelmed by emotions. Maybe that’s why I am wary of human connections, although at the same time I crave it, because my need for connecting with other people is a very human one. Thankfully, I have met great people in my life with whom I can be open and vulnerable each time our paths cross. It’s like a series of connection/merging and disconnection/individualization, and it suits me just fine. A long-term connection is quite another matter, and I am not sure whether I can tolerate it.

My brain is intent on making me unhappy

Headache. Anxiety. Binge-eating, then (understandably) feeling sick.

Okay. Something’s afoot.

After all the lengths I have gone to in order to ensure that I am free of stressful burden, why am I not throwing a party, dancing in the rain, playing the sloth, or doing the things on top of my I’ll-get-to-it-once-I-have-more-time list?

I have time right now! In fact, I did all I could to make sure I have these months to myself. So why am I feeling restless and anxious?

Then the answer hit me: I don’t think I deserve this.

Like, gimme a friggin’ break, brain.

That’s the thing about creating a vacuum, I guess. We all go on thinking, If I only had some free time… and when that free time rolls around, we don’t do all the awesome, fulfilling things we had planned. At least I don’t because I appear to have some serious issues.

I could spend days, weeks, months care-free and happy. Creative. Relaxed. But no, I am already tensed about somehow mangling this precious time (I seriously borrow trouble) and I am anxious because I feel I don’t deserve to be happy and creative and relaxed. When will I ever allow myself to think I deserve happiness, I wonder? After getting a kick-ass degree? After finding a job? After saving the world from its every harm?

My feelings of inadequacy have always been there and they’ve been driving me crazy for years. I guess that’s the core of it. Guilt is a byproduct of feeling inadequate and undeserving. Because that’s how I still think – that you have to earn happiness. You have to do something to deserve it.
So I keep feeling like shit and being stressed out. I keep having all these ailments that are small yet persistent and always appear without a cause. Maybe because I think I am allowed to abandon that way of thinking when – and only while! – I am sick. As soon as I am back on my feet, I go back to thinking I should be feeling miserable all the time.

It’s somehow easier to think, to generalize, that everyone deserves happiness. When it comes to myself, the sentence “I deserve to be happy” doesn’t roll as easily off the tongue. Maybe because I know all about my own dark side? Because I know all the petty, mean, selfish, aloof thoughts that I have? With others, it’s like oh yeah, sure, everyone has troubles, issues, dark sides, but with me it’s like OMG YOU WHAT?!

I don’t know if this means I think too highly or too lowly of myself.