Cynical laughter

You know, it’s funny how people judge others on how little they know. You know why? Because the more they know, the less they can judge and everyone likes to feel like they are better or in higher power.

And I respect that and I understand that. Because at one point in my life, I did that too.

“I can’t help it.” I always tell myself. “I’m only human.”

That convenient excuse that I always used on myself to make myself feel better. I admit I’ve been wrong, many times again. But will you admit that you were too?

Hah. Because we are all human right?

I’ve been censoring myself too much these few days. If this blog is going to be a documentation of my life, then you’re damn right I’m going to write whatever happens to me here. Just like all those predictable lines on a blog’s introduction column.

‘Don’t like what I write? Kindly stop reading here and get off my page. Judge someone else.’

Or was it only me?

Hurhur.

People have to accept that one can never be happy for long on this Earth. Happiness is fleeting whereas sadness is the baseline. I haven’t been happy these few days. My head hurts and I can’t sleep. My appetite is non existant and I’ve been restless. I can’t be bothered with my studies, honestly, right now I couldn’t give a shit. But give me credit because I’m trying very hard to look like I do.

There I said it. I don’t care. I don’t. Am I wasting my parent’s money? I am. Do I care? Maybe, but only minimally. Do they know this? They do. Do they care? Hah.

Older self, do you know? Not caring feels great. Failures on exams don’t get me down anymore. Seeing classmates excel doesn’t make me envious anymore. Feeling like no one cares feels even better. It is an unspoken freedom. Everything is my choice. Do I stay in this lecture? Do I leave early? I could even skip school if I wanted, hop on a bus to the nearest mall and DDR or Jubeat my savings away.

A month ago, choice was the worst thing that happened to me. Now, I feel like I’m allowed to break all the rules. Because they gave me a choice. A choice to be right or wrong. And strangely, being wrong now feels so right. So help me, I know that in time to come I will regret this. How severely? I don’t know. What I do know is that I will not be happy with it. I have a question though:

If being happy is what I want in life, what happens when the wrong things are the only thing that make me happy? 

I’ll have to think hard on that one.

For so long I’ve been like this. You know that too, dear self. Years, have I lied to myself that I don’t care to the point that I’ve chucked my dreams away. It’s a near fatal mistake and I hope that when you are reading this now, you’d have built up a bit of a life.

I always wanted to sing and dance. I want to travel the world and eat all that glorious food. I want to go to church. Have a cell group to call a spiritual family. I want to learn a musical instrument.

Dear self, I have tried to ask for lessons. I’ve tried asking to go overseas. I’ve tried going to a youth service. But what happened, I’m sure we both remember very clearly.

At this point of time, anyone would ask me to fight. Fight for what I want. Chase my dreams. But it is much easier said than done. I had so many hurdels to get over. That path seemed bumpy and dark. If I went there, no one would support me. They were just waiting for me to fail. So that they can laugh and say ‘I told you so.

I did the only thing, the easiest thing, anyone could do. I gave up. Because it was easier that way. I’d have a good night’s sleep, no worry; extra stress. But look at me now. I cry myself to sleep and the last five minutes before my mind gives way into slumber is painfully empty.

The blank screen:

In the day, my mind doesn’t rest. It is restless. Thinking of everything under the sun. I think, watching whatever it flashes on the blank screen of my mind. Memories and what my mind think is to come. Occasionally, it speaks to me. Often, it chides me. It reasons with me, demanding my understanding and yet when I ask for it to understand, it does not comply. These epileptic flashes carry on through out the day, till night falls where I lay my head down finally, in sole purpose in figuring out everything it’s been showing me. I close my eyes and watch for the flashbacks. Where are the flashbacks? Where have they gone? Has my mind finally gone to sleep?

I don’t feel tired, I’m paranoid. My eyes are open, they cannot shut. I look around in my dark room and for once, I do not fear the dark. Dear self, do you know why people fear the dark? Because people fear not the darkness but what is in the darkness. When I fear it not, do you know what that makes me? It makes me the fear itself in my darkness and yet I am perfectly comfortable. I am suddenly awake. I become undone in the darkness, when I finally feel like I’m by myself. Suddenly, I can think for myself. The voices has stopped  and what is left is my very essence. And what do I do when I cannot sleep?

I think. Why do I keep thinking about the past? I look back and I realize, I have nothing to look back at. I have but memories and within those memories, I have no achievements. I have no evidence to show that I have lived for myself, no evidence to show that I have lived. Utterly disgusted with my past self, I look to the future for a little encouragement, only to realize that I see no happiness; no future for myself. It is then that I realize the full weight of the situation on my shoulders, and that is when I cry.

I am noticed and interrogated.

‘Why are you like this?’ 

‘Do you want people to think you are crazy?’

And I cry harder because I feel like I am. I cry harder because I want them to know but I just cannot tell them. Because the voices say no. Because I’ve promised myself to lock these feelings away but it’s leaking out.

‘It’s nothing. I swear it’s nothing.’ 

I will always tell them. I’m not sure if that is a lie anymore. Their faces aren’t of worry anymore. I’m not even sure if it started as worry at all. I’m so scared. Everyone is angry with me, for all the politically correct reasons. I’m so scared that I’ll lose everyone. I’m so scared that this time, if I wanted to run away, I’ll have to disappear. If they left me, I’ll have to live each day looking at them, and in them will I see all my failures and disappointments. Do you remember the fear they made you feel? When they stare into your crippled soul, anger radiating from their very being. They ask you:

‘What’s wrong? You better tell me what’s wrong.’ and you just end up crying more.

The more tears you shed, the angrier they are. The angrier they are, the easier they leave you.

So don’t cry Cherie, please don’t cry anymore.

For that night when I try to sleep again, my mind wakes up. I stare at the ceiling, watch the memories go by again. I tear up but I don’t make a sound. I cannot make a sound, in case I wake anyone.

I’m not allowed to cry. I cannot cry”

I have to tell myself over and over. I stay like that for an hour or so. Thinking, pondering, watching. And the only time I know that I am ready so sleep, is when I start to fear the darkness again.

Dear self, look at your left wrist. If it scars for long, I can only say that I am so, so sorry. But let it be in memory of what happened to us. Let it be in memory of what we have felt and if possible may it never happen again. Do you know that in order to keep this promise to you, I’ve been suffering? When the emptiness gets too much to bare, something tells me to go down to the kitchen and get my penknife. It didn’t have to be new lines, my knife was sharp enough to simply reopen the currently thin membrane that held my blood within my veins. I’m not set on dying, no, not just yet at least. But do you know? The first cut was the most shallow. The deeper I cut, the more I bled, the better I felt. For that few hours, while I lay there bleeding, I felt the most free in the world. I felt my pain leaving me. But when I was found out, I only knew shame and a new form of pain resided. I felt worst than before yet the only thing I could think of was going back to the knife again. Not going back was hard because such a temporary anti-depressant was addictive, just like how  all anti-depressants naturally are. But for myself and for the promise to another, I cannot go back there anymore. And I will strive hard to keep that promise.

Just last night, I tried to pray to be delivered. For a restoration within myself. That by some miraculous turn of events, I won’t feel like this anymore. That once again I’ll be able to stand up straight again and walk; run. But I found that what I was praying for, I was simply trying to convince myself. I had questioned my belief, I questioned his existence. After an hour of pondering with him, it struck me that all I had to do was wait for this feeling to pass, that once day breaks, I’ll be able to say ‘I’m fine’ again. I won’t have to be mad at anyone. I won’t feel angry or sad. I won’t feel anything.

Many people would say I am wallowing in self pity. I am. And it’s pathetic. I know. But it does not mean that just because I wallow now, means I’m looking for sympathy. Just because I’m writing this post now, I am looking for pity.

Tell me. So what? If you pity me? What is that going to do?

So what? If I gain someone’s sympathy. What good is that going to bring me?

That’s why. I don’t need sympathy. I don’t need pity. I refuse it. The only one who can show me that is myself.

So I’m sorry. I just threw a pity party and you’re not invited. No one is. 

Cherie.

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