I am tired of trying to introduce the point of my posts everytime I decide to blog (which, I have to admit at least to myself, is nowhere near as frequently as I’d want it to be). Every time it is the same old thing- I try to be a little funny and give a vaguely amusing anecdotal bit, then I declare I have a problem, then I rant a lot and reach a meaningless conclusion that barely has any correlation with what I’ve been going on about the whole time, and then I sign off with a wispy resolution that is definitely not applicable in real life. And then, when I’m done saying what must be said in so many words, I torture myself profusely by editing every sentence fifteen times over each time I open my blog, crushing all prospects of me coming up with a new one because I neurotically alter everything I have written here since January 2015 again and again until I’ve exhausted all my creative potentialities. I update my own history more than I chronicle it and that’s disgusting and counterproductive and just flat out dumb. Without provocations, I remain my own worst critic, censor, and insecurity.
So now there are going to be some changes- Barring proper grammar, I say to hell with structures and formats. I am done caging myself with conceptions of what I’m taught to believe is the right way to express myself. I’m also tired of considering what others think of my writing even though I will deny that I ever remotely cared until the eve of my death.
And it’s fucking terrifying, by the way, that I am actually going to die, and there is nothing I can do about it? I can’t emphasise the levels of dread I experience from the reality of this prospect. In fact, I’m pretty sure this fixation is not that normal for someone my age, especially when life has been this unbelievably kind. I don’t ever feel sad or lonely enough to want to kill myself, and nothing remarkably traumatic has ever happened to me, it’s not about that- I just constantly feel angry at the inevitability of death itself and subsequently make myself really, really hot and bothered all on my own for unjustifiably long durations of time. I hate feeling helpless, that’s all.
I never succeed at accurately communicating the nature of this stress to anyone else either. I don’t know what to do about it.
But anyway, moving on.
The year is about to end. I will be 20 soon. And I don’t feel so good.
Can I just say that everyone I know has ridiculously real issues and my problems never seem to measure up to theirs? Don’t get me wrong, I love being the sanest, most sorted person in the posse and I wouldn’t trade places with anyone for the world, thank you very much. But I also can’t deny that it gets severely annoying when people in my vicinity have highly dramatic protagonist moments in states of elevated emotionality while I cry over a vague tv thing even I don’t care about that much. I witness and I wonder, but I always stay at a wary distance with all my hipster self-assurances that things don’t matter much if you don’t let them have power over you, that all these “messy emo kids” are sabotaging themselves by getting too invested in the role of the main character.
The story is not all about you and you can always switch arcs if you become self-aware about the narrative, right? Break the goddamn fourth wall and you’re good. It’s easy.
That’s another thing if you want to take notes- my tendency to presume the position of a spectator when the world seems to unravel before my eyes, and then to try and make sense of things by cross-referencing and correlating them to a bizarrely diverse range of tropes I have accumulated in a life characterised by the frenzied consumption of thematically diverse media. Truth is, I never truly belong to my immediate surroundings because I’m constantly refracting the world through my film-roll eyes and the rigid constructions of plot, character, and motifs.
Talk about being caged by formats.
I am also always a little out of my depth when it comes to matters involving sentiments. Maybe this is because I moved around a lot as a kid? Always the new girl trying to survive in new situations and always the one having to leave everyone behind for the obligations of another, even newer life? I mean, everything is neatly compartmentalised in my head and I have been a lot of people in a number of discrete lives, all healthy and happy. But it is not a lie, unfortunately, that there has always been a prolonged sense of rootlessness in me. I am somehow an inherent outsider no matter where I go. I linger, I observe, but I always go back to the woods.
So I can’t help wondering if I have ever really felt anything in all its magnitude. If I have never fancied myself the one everything is about, have I ever really felt the pain of things the way it deserves to be felt? Because when it comes to me, everything is about me at the end of the day, and I’m just too self-alienating to properly acknowledge that.
Also, why am I so stupid when I am angry? I argue and I lie and I lash out when somebody blames me for the right reasons, even though under the surface of all that aggression, I know I am the idiot who messed up. I always know, but I can’t say it. I have never been able to say it. This is the centre of all the guilt I feel about being inauthentic when I am around my family- it’s made even worse by the stinging, uncomfortable awareness that they have become irrecoverably jaded with my stubborn defensiveness, primarily because of the inevitable distance that has come into existence due to repeated instances of miscommunication and incomprehension. I have reduced the chances of being heard out without any reservations or measured reactions as a consequence of my own self- created history of meaningless altercations. I have to try extra hard to be taken seriously now, and it is all on me. I, in really dumb ways, catalysed my family’s scepticism and suspicion, and made it all the more difficult to be perfectly honest.
Don’t get me wrong, I know that they love me and they trust me, but I also know that it is hard for them to understand me and it is harder for them to support me. I don’t make it easy. It’s like every verbose, incoherent research paper harassed students are made to read for the understanding of something that could be expressed in three simple phrases. I am the unnecessary complexity of that language. I’ve been trying to get better, though. I am trying to be level-headed and calm and empathetic and kind in my interactions. It feels like a waste now, to fight with those who love me the most. Now that I live away, I see it better. I am beginning to get it. Some lack of mutual agreement and understanding can be overcome by the sheer strength and stability of love and loyalty.
Anyway. On to the next thing.
This one has been bothering me for a while now – Why do I play the devil’s advocate for those who belittle me, but shirk off the purity of regard that some hold for me? Why do I try so hard to justify criticisms people spew my way when they are evidently uninformed, and why do I instinctively reject the faith people who actually know me choose to place in me? Sometimes it feels like I actually want to dislike myself- as if my fundamental terribleness is something that has been waiting for proof all this time, and I am subconsciously searching for reasons to validate that doubt with ever single conversation I have. I mean, there is no real evidence of me being an awful person. Sure, apathetic and entitled and petty and inconsiderate sometimes, but never bad. Do I doubt the truth of my own morality?
I really need to look into this.
Lastly, I don’t know who I am. Again. I thought I had it down pretty well, but I clearly don’t because I have started reacting again and feeling lost again and being unbearably cranky again and staying confused about the point of things again. I still am an optimist and I realise that that is a victory in certain ways, but considering how frequently I manage to drown in my head, even as a stable, satisfied person, it disconcerts me to think of what I might become when something does finally happen.
At some point, the balance has to tip, right?
That is all for now. I have nothing witty to say here. Fuck structural coherence. Goodnight.