There truly aren’t too many people who can conceal their secrets. Most people end up disclosing their most troubling fears or desires or thoughts to someone else--to alleviate accumulating stress, one might say. Most people, as social creatures, cannot live without disclosing something to someone else. I suppose it is mutually expedient, since people rarely do care about whatever the other person discloses to them; in the end thoughts and emotions are actually divulged to warped mirrors that reflect what is desired, whether that is reassurance or sympathy. Happy news is greeted with congratulations over and over and over, but the truly disgusting thing is that beneath those statements is a desire for the achieving person’s failure; it is so much easier to pity and console in superficial ways and no one likes to acknowledge their own faults that did not receive or deserve the same congratulations. I lied. It isn’t too disgusting, not if the person realizes their hypocrisy--then, it is just sad.
Nondisclosure is always the safest path, to keep myself ignorant and to keep disappointed sighs and judgment from hindering me. I am weak: I hide behind my secrets and remain silent about so many things. But in that same way, I am strong, to maintain that eternal cap on a building pressure system. One may say that I fear judgment and failure, but at the same time that I protect my secrets from sight, I am also naked against others’ voices. Immunity doesn’t exist for insecurity, but at least, when I do care and do take things to heart and have consequently black thoughts, there is no sign of it whatsoever. I remain safe and strong.
1/4/2015
The news has ludicrous stories sometimes. I recently read an article that spoke of a 23 year old son who beheaded his mother simply because she was “nagging” him about doing chores. While the behavior disgusts me, I confess to understanding on some level the same annoyance that the son felt. It is a very insinuating and malicious thing--that annoyance. The boundary that restricts humans from acting on that annoyance and impulse is likely what defines being “human” in this society.
But “human” is relative. I am part of that relative and am accustomed to the status quo. However, my disgust does not stem from the gore and apparent irrationality of the son. It is dwelling in the aftermath of the situation and the probable egotistical satisfaction of the son that I cannot stand. I imagine that a part of me would like to be him in that very moment afterwards, with the public attention and being deemed a monstrosity in society, all simply to scream at the world that still, I am human. It revolts myself that I would like to stand in those shoes, and paradoxically, my revulsion is also the object of my despise. I admit to adopting societal norms and values, so I suppose it cannot be helped to looked down upon that man. I will never be able to recognize his actions as anything, but I will never be able to outwardly condemn them as inhumane and crazy. Because he was not crazy, he was fed on by carnal instinct and ego.
What a hypocrite of a human, I am. I’ve had moments that I’ve wished people dead. I’ve had moments that I wished my mother was dead because I was annoyed. My after thoughts were never guilt, but the silent musing over if I would likely feel anything if she did die (I thought not, but I would never know). Of course, rationality trumps by a significant margin, and I am able to tell wise actions from those that will negatively impact me in the long run. I think I love my parents and my sister, if you can define love specifically and definitively, so I would never actively take it upon myself to kill them.
But if one were to die to some unfortunate event, I think I would find masochistic satisfaction in not feeling anything, going to school as normal, and continuing to be myself. A retaliation against society? Humanity, perhaps?
1/5/2015
A mother of an acquaintance died recently due to ovarian cancer. But I don't quite care. People seem to make such a big deal out of mundane events, even simple things such as school relationships and gossip. One would be correct to assume that many would jump at the opportunity if you mentioned prom dates or grade comparisons or students who've been suspended from college; it is gossip (talk about other people) after all. Maybe death isn't too mundane in the context of all those other examples that I posed, but it is mundane in a broader outlook. I am not amused by tangible reality. Too isolated? Perhaps. But if I were in the world that I think about so often and fascinate myself with, I would not nearly have all the time to think about the stagnant world and other thoughts that become dangerous in excess.
I am excited alone, for that is also where I am free. This world is boring and it grates at me.
1/28/15
Contemplating suicide has become somewhat of a joke. I'm not quite sure what I seek anymore. I seem to reach and reach and then come back crashing down to the hard, painful earth. And then, confronting a loathsome taunting song, I turn away from it all—like a martyr I should suffer, out of the name of someone else and the price of my pride. But I don't care, I tell myself over and over and over and the thought drags its claws across my brain, sinking into the flesh and painting a sky of red. Even though, deep inside that brain, a selfish demon dwells, and even worse, I cannot view it as a demon for it is a god to me. My god wars with the sacrifice only I acknowledge as such. In the end, I am undeniably conscious that I will walk into a path where I betray my god and skin myself for another. But it is not such a bad fate, for the pain of being an unrecognized martyr becomes addicting after a while.
3/16/2015
I'm a very normal person, with normal reactions and emotions. For example, when I don't see results from the fruits of my efforts, I am discouraged. This is easily exacerbated from comparison to expectation.
But I also seem to like to suffer, at the expense of another and at the awareness of that other person. The guilt that seeps from them is beyond satisfying. At the same time, I also prefer shortcuts and despise taking the long route in which I must continue to work unsustainably hard, until my back breaks and I simply want to die. But it is often the long route that I must take, because that is the route people see me suffer most clearly.
I will do something simply to spite another, but not in such a direct manner. I will go out of my way to please someone despite it going against my personal wishes, and then I will paint a big fat red slash across that attempt—screaming "you were wrong all along" to whomever I obey and curse. In the end though, it is all likely an excuse for my own shortcomings which I cannot bear to look at; no one else sees them either, because I hide them within my suffocating coats of insecurity. Such a normal thing to do. It is so disgusting that I am deeply, insatiably fascinated.
3/17/2015
Please don't tell me that I need to "let go". I have never once in my life displayed any aversion to the vanities and comforts of life. Rather, when I weighed my options, the least effort and most efficient choice rarely entailed fashion and luxury. I don't need to "let go" in the sense that I need to participate in social events and make the most of everything, especially when I feel most at ease alone.
But it is an enormous misconception to say that I'd prefer to work rather than indulge myself. My vanity is merely contained behind walls of restraint. Do you think I don't care about my appearance? My social impressions? I care, to the extent that it has been morphed into part of my sole character. If only trivial things like apparel and fashion could satisfy society enough while stroking my ego. But it is not. The worthy expectation is not in something genetic and independent of individual efforts—and so I endure with the thought of being some kind of queen in the far back of my head.
3/16/2015: 8 pm
I believe this is what one would call chronic depression, a slow and insidious feeling that immerses oneself entirely for a period of time, only to retract and lull oneself into a false sense of security; but it never strikes suddenly: even when in security, it is easy to tell when it shall spread again. I can do nothing to prevent it, because half of me desires it as that nourishment for a starving ego and a means to justify that noble martyr status.
I have thought about killing myself regularly—the thought comes in bursts of overwhelming exhaustion, later to hide behind the chaotic and busy life as it assumes insignificance. But I am ever conscious that the thought is there. As for acting on it, that is another thought entirely. Many many people fantasize about their own suicides and how their lives would affect those around them with the small hope that they would make a difference and prove someone—anyone wrong. I am no different. I do not vent about substantial things to anyone. My sorrow accumulates within me and feels more and more like a cliched bottle-everything-up girl, which, perhaps I am. So if I should die, my death would at least come as a shock and drop some jaws right?
Of course I have also contemplated my parents' reactions should they find me dangling out my bedroom window on a noose, with the screen of the window so cleverly removed and the body not quite found until a full 48 hours later. What can I say? I do not speak with them very much nor leave my room too often. But, when I think of the expression and emotion that would fall on their faces, the guilt truly does weigh like good bricks in my stomach and I cannot bare leaving people so innocent like that. Even if they have another child to make up for it.
Thus my last option kills me and sustains me: to fail to live up to expectations but continue to try despite the sacrifices people wish me to make. I live a martyr's life, and that is why I still breathe, so I can eventually fail and prove that it was all worth nothing in the end. My throat may as well be stripped away, for I can do this without speaking; I can continue to carry that burden and suffering in the small cave of my mind.
3/20/2015
People who commit suicide don't do it on the whim of a snowball effect. They think about it constantly, whether years are months before the deed. It begins as a faint by still serious idea that is pushed off as selfish, weak and stupid. Because everyone has thought of suicide at least once in their lives. But when that thought becomes prolonged and recurring over years, it is quite clear that there is something different. As to what that is, who knows. I wish someone would try hard enough to figure it out, hard enough to get past my own self destructive barriers built from habit and the past.
3/23/2015
Is it normal to so frequently think of suicide? Or maybe it isn't suicide; rather, it's the sinking feeling that stabs at the heart countlessly, overwhelming oneself in jealousy and self pity and then self berating.