And I think and think and think.

“And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

And I dropped down, and down – “
“I Felt a Funeral, in my Brain,” Emily Dickinson.

5:00 am. I’m tossing my pillow, turning around in my bed. Could see the Sun, tearing apart the clouds, burning a shade of crimson that I cannot quite describe. Beautiful. I haven’t slept yet. Couldn’t sleep. This incessant, nagging, haranguing bubble of thought that claws its way out, piercing and puncturing and ripping and forcing me to be shredding parts of myself; claws its way out as I choke; until its the only thing I can see in the mirror. “I suck.”

And then I tell myself, “shut up and get some sleep.”

Maybe I do get some sleep. Maybe I dream. Its one thing to lose a friend. Its one thing to lose all your friends. But it won’t prepare you to lose your family. The incapability that you feel. I do not want to be honest, but I am going to be anyway. This blog is my escape.

Its 1:00 pm. I’m hearing noises below. Shouting, yelling, swearing. Something breaks. In the living and in myself. I’m scared. I walk down from my room. They were fighting and he slams the door and leaves. She looks at me. Its one thing when strangers tell you things that make you feel like shit. Its one thing when your friends whom you trusted make you feel like shit. But it won’t prepare you to have your mother make you feel that way. That same incessant, nagging haranguing thought that I tried so hard to escape. “I’m worthless.”

But I tell myself, “shut up and get some food.”

Do you know what it feels like to live with hate? So much that it doesn’t seem like something you’re living with but rather something you’re living in. Its one thing to have random dudes hate you. Its one thing to have your friends and family hate you. But none of this will prepare you for when you hate yourself.

Its 6:30 pm. I argue with myself, I list out all the possible reasons of why I deserved whatever was happening to me. Makes no sense, makes no sense, makes no sense. You’re crying but you’ve been taught at home to never cry so you press the sleeves of your shirt or blouse or whatever you call this into your damn eyeballs and dry them out and act like nothing ever happened, but if you could picture an universe inside of yourself, its collapsed already and you’ve gone way too far and way too many years with this pain that won’t ever dilute and feels like a fresh wound that has been sanitized everytime, the sting, the burn, the rage, help help, shut up shut up, quietttttt. I suck.

Its 9:30 pm. I am pissed at myself for having done nothing productive today or anyday. I suck. I tell myself that its okay, its okay. But God, I really don’t agree. I think I’m going too hard on myself. I think I should give myself some time. I think that if I was hard on myself I wouldn’t be such a failure. I think I shouldn’t think all this. I think and I think and I think. I tell myself again that its going to be okay. I wish I could believe myself. But you see that same nagging, incessant, haranguing thought that always failed to leave, dominating all my senses, repeats: I’m worthless.

Its 2:00 am. Something happened in between but goddamn, I can’t seem to be able to write it down. I cry.

Its 5:00 am. I’m tossing my pillow, turning around in my bed. Its a fuckin’ cycle, a spiral that shrinks as you follow it in. Could see the Sun, tearing apart the clouds, burning a shade of crimson that I cannot quite describe. Beautiful. I haven’t slept yet. Couldn’t sle– pause, wait, I breathe. And you know how Marjane Satrapi talks in Persepolis that if a wheel stops, the whole cycle collapses? I followed the spiral outward.

Its been quite a while now that I learnt this: nothing was wrong with me. It doesn’t make sense because I didn’t deserve this. I won’t shut up. I wouldn’t say I realized it out of the blue. Life first shows you hell, you feel like shit. Then it shows you more hell, you feel shittier. And at one point, you notice that you’re only seeing hell and turn away, look around. Thats the moment you need. Your break-through. You’ll be a-okay. You’ll love you and you’ll realize that is all you need for now.

🙂 eh.

I’m right here. Y’all could talk to me whenever. Just drop an email. Or a comment. I could do with some talking, too.

I’m back, Motherfleckers.

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.”
Robert Frost.

Apparently now, its almost a year since I wrote anything in here. Barf. Do you know when life ultimately treats you like shit? And you’re like, “why tf do I deserve this ugh, why do I deserve this” blah blah, shut up. Stop pitying yourself. Empathize with yourself. But don’t ever pity, you’re not weak. Admit you’re not okay, ask for help, cry, cry, cry, until it makes you feel better, even if you didn’t know what made you upset in the first place. But don’t pity yourself when you feel like you’re done and give up trying. Don’t ever give up on yourself. I know its easier to say than be done, but I’m not asking you to do it. Try. Try is all. With just the meekest effort. But try.

It might suck. And you might need a lotttttt of time. And you might still be not okay. But when has anything been perfect anyway?

To all those random, nice people who’ve emailed saying this blog is amazing and shit, thanks man. And to all those random *types and erases assholes* who’ve emailed saying this shit is depressing, okay look: Firstly, change your perspective. This is what I’m doing for myself to combat with depression. This is supposed to be against depression and all that crap. And I’m doing it for me. I suck at telling how I feel to someone I know and I bet there are others like this too, and it feels better when taking some effort to understand or to be understood. Secondly, don’t spread hate man, c’mon. Because let me tell you this:

This blog is my truth. And I just want to be honest here. There’s no way I’m changing my truth and what I believe. Also notice, I say this is my truth. Not THE truth. Our faith differs. Our truth differs. But is it really the truth when we all imbibe myriad comprehensions of a story that might not even be singular or plural or universal? Fuck, it might not even exist. But we all like to blind ourselves with this pure, deity, celestial bright white light called “truth,” when it is just another possibility. If truth isn’t truth, then wouldn’t lies not be lies? If what is true to you, is a lie to me; if what I believe is something you reject or dismiss, then who is right and who is wrong, how do we win this tug of war? Or would be sane enough to agree that there isn’t no universal truth or there isn’t a lie? Or is that exactly what insanity is? If everything is a possibility then.. if everything can happen, why the fuck are we all so scared to hope? Why do we give up already?

Pew pew.

(I randomly began to type this out with no idea where it is headed, I’ll read thru it again and perfect it sometime later maybe, but as for now: I’m back, Motherfleckers #suits)

Feels so good to have typed this bruh.

Remind me to forget

“To be alive is to be missing.”
TATWD. JG.

I miss him. I never thought he’d matter so much to me. I never thought I could love someone that much. I never thought I could. But he made me real, in a way that I thought I couldn’t ever become. I’d made my walls strong enough, I’d made myself cold enough to not feel emotion or hurt. Sleepless nights, no appetite. I thought I wasn’t human. But he made me believe, in love, in our friendship, that it was something I could count on, that we’d be forever. I learnt how to let go of my insecurities and love someone, like squeeze your heart and drain every last bit of love out for them. I hurt. I feared. But I also loved. I became a person from just another species on the animal kingdom. Love is both how you become a person and why. (Another TATWD ref XD)

But then, he played me. I thought you can’t get played by a friend, but yeah, you can. It took me long enough to realize what I meant to him. He told me I wasn’t just a speck of dust but a star; I realized he meant the universe to me and a star was but a speck of dust. I think that I shouldn’t be writing this post, that I shouldn’t value him so much to do this, that I shouldn’t love him anymore, that I should leave him for the way he treated me.

But here I am, still writing this, still posting this, still..

We can all get over that someone. Trust me. It took me a long time, long, long time. But I’m making it. So can you. You can and will go on. You’re independent and strong and everything that you wish you were and weren’t, too. If I can make it, so can you. There might still be a part that hopes for things to go back to how it was. But was it really what I thought it was? Or is that a lie I’m imagining too?