Note: I was very sleepy writing this, so please excuse the terrible writing or any grammatical errors and misspellings and whatnot. Ahem. You may proceed.
Night makes things real.
Strange, isn’t it? You would think that light would show things clearer, but it is darkness that truly brings things into focus.
It is half-past four in the morning. I lay awake in bed for several hours, thinking – you know what I mean, that kind of thinking ones does only when one is alone in bed, cushioned in the darkness which is large as the universe.
I started thinking about things. Lots of things. I started thinking about the inequality present in the world, sparked by a remark from my mother who told me we could only afford to eat fruit and vegetables a few weeks when I complained about the lack of healthy food in the cupboards and fridge. I got sad, thinking of rich people living long, healthy lives in the lap of luxury while others must fight for every bite, while children die, in millions, of starvation, lying on their sides, bellies bloated and crawling with flies. I started to cry, because it was so unfair, and I hated it, I hated this world, I hated people and their selfishness and stupidity. I hate the fact that the universe is not just. I thought of the compounded suffering of all animals at the hand of humans throughout history, humans included, and I felt the utter futility of pain: Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Please. Tell me why; I cannot bear the absence of a reason, I cannot stomach the thought that suffering is as random as the pattern of rain droplets trickling down a window.
Slowly, in an effort to distract myself, my thoughts took a more selfish turn. I started thinking of my father, how deeply he had hurt me, and how I still, to this day, after all this time, have yet to release that grief. It just won’t come out. I tell myself I never loved him, that I do not care, but I do, I do. He was everything to me. He was supposed to love me, care for me, be my rock and anchor in a world so terrifying and awful for an excruciatingly sensitive child, and instead, he did not love, he did not care, he left me alone, adrift. In my eyes, he morphed from a man who was never wrong, the God of my life, to someone cowardly and small and petty – and the shame and disgust I felt, seeing him that way, made me want to die.
I thought of how my broken relationship with my father means whenever I feel the slightest interest in a boy, even if he expresses some interest in return, makes me act odd, awkward, strange, running away in the opposite direction, to the point of ignoring him and treating him badly, when all I want to say is: “Hello. Nice to meet you. I can be a little weird, but hey, who knows, maybe you’ll accept that, and, even if we’re not romantically involved, at least we can be friends.”
I ruin things. I self-sabotage when it comes to relationships, denying myself that which might bring me happiness. Or perhaps I am just not meant for such happiness, such a sense of belonging, as others my age experience with their peers. I am just far too…introverted, sensitive, odd; it’s easy to dismiss such traits, to tell me I should accept myself, and I do try very hard to, but it gets so lonely sometimes, never having anyone to relate to, never feeling loved.
I get so lonely it makes me sick. I want to fold myself against someone, and feel protected the way my father once made me feel, before I was abandoned by him. Before he became strange, and distant. But I do not know if I can ever start a mature relationship with someone, not when I am so stilted and awkward, not when I can barely strike up a conversation without my subconscious forcing me to walk away in the opposite direction, the fear welling up inside of me like bile. Self-esteem is so very easy for some people to build: they strut through life born with it, never realising, when they dole out advice, that there are some out there who are awfully, awfully sensitive, who cringe at everything, be it a harsh word or an animal getting hurt, and it’s so hard, to be strong and confident when you are so soft and scared.
Other people find other people. They find love. Yet I feel as if it is something that is barred to me. Perhaps I do not have enough “self-esteem” to believe I deserve happiness; perhaps I simply cannot fathom someone wanting to be with me, someone who enjoys my imaginative quirkiness, who does not view my crying at everything as a weakness, who understands why I stop and stare at someone curled up sleeping on the street, my heart aching, bursting, choking with useless compassion. For I have so much love inside of me that I am afraid to show it. If I were to let it out, the torrent, people would only find me more strange, or pull away, disturbed by my onslaught of affection for a random human being – it has happened before, and it hurt me, terribly.
I care so much for the comfort of others. I do not care enough for myself. I am always afraid of discomfiting others with my oddness, of making other people uncomfortable in my presence, that I never even consider just being myself. Judgment and rejection pierce me just as deeply as anything else, you see, so it is difficult, resisting the urge to avoid pain. My nerves are sprung to the surface, easily plucked like violin-strings by whoever passes me by. I am exposed, vulnerable. And I hate it. I hate it.
Only friendship and love provide an illusion that we are not lonely. I want to stare into the eyes of another human being, and for each of us to see something in the eyes of the other; I do not know what, I do not know if there is a name for it, but I do know it is something very important, very true, and pure. That is what I want. I think I want to smile and see someone smile back, because they love me for who I am. I wish people were more sincere and kind. I wish and want many things, so badly that once again, my heart aches, but wanting and having are two very different things. People don’t understand the depth of my affection, my love, my emotions. Externally, you see a well whose opening is closed-off by a rotten wooden board. Inside, I am so bottomless I get lost in it.
And then, lying there in bed, despair gripped me regarding my writing. I know I mention writing too much on this blog, on how it is my only lifeline in this indifferent universe, that as long as I have my Art it shall all be Okay, but the more I write, the more I feel I do not have anything, except childish dreams and delusions, and a few scribbled pages that will never be seen by the eyes of others. Writing is hard. Yes, everyone knows that. Yes, I do feel I have stories in me to tell which I, as of yet, do not have the skill level to execute properly. But the doubt crawls in me nonetheless, making me procrastinate, which further feeds the doubt, and makes me feel awful and sickened with myself. How dare I squander time which I could have spent furthering my dreams when so many others do not have the luxury to do so?
I just wish there was someone with me, in the flesh-and-blood, whom I could speak with, who could understand me. Of course, that is just a fairy dream, especially since I tend to delude myself into thinking various people I meet can understand me, only to drive them away by spilling my heart too early, too fast. I do not know how to do things properly, how to think; all I do is feel, and let those feelings take me where they may. I am an emotional creature, not because I am silly and female, but because I have a heart. An awfully, awfully big heart, for someone so petite, that needs some outlet, something, someone. That hurts, a lot, everyday, every minute, without achieving anything productive. Empathy is useless without action. I am all empathy, and no action – it is hard to help people when you can barely leave the confines of your home without a panic attack.
How ridiculous, to want to help others so much, yet to be so crippled socially. Which is why the only way I can bring joy and happiness and delight to people is through my words, through my Art, and if I fail in doing that, if I can’t write the goddamn books I want to write to a level of quality that conveys the ideas and concepts and characters and worlds I want to convey, then there is little for me in this world to look forward to. Do not get me wrong: I still have hope, I will still push on. I will just cry a little bit more along the way, that’s all. And that’s alright.
That’s all I want. To write, and share what I write. To have enough money to buy healthy food and books I want to read. To spend my days walking in parks in the sunshine, nights watching the stars. For someone to love me, the real me, no matter how odd and strange and sensitive I act. To be happy. To wake up and smile at the sun. To play with cats and children and flowers. To act, pretend I am some character in a story, go on a treasure hunt or climb up into a tree house with someone I love. To have a tiny corner for myself where I can read and write and love and live and learn.
Oh, this is ridiculous. Tomorrow I shall faint from fatigue – it is now five o’clock in the morning. My sleep pattern is all gnarly these days, and it does not make my mood any better. Well, chin up. Let us look forward with hope, no matter how flawed we are, how many mistakes we make. I am beautiful. I am worthy of love. There is much happiness in the offing. I can write; it’s just a matter of time and practice; you can always improve your writing skills, but you cannot always improve a lack of original ideas.
There are many people I want to meet in the future. A significant other. Book characters. Children, perhaps. They are waiting for me. I shall be ready for them, when they come, ready even if I am not ready. That is all life is: Living. You just live. Oh, I shall carve my own corner of happiness in this transitory life. I hope you do, too.