It's not a cool thing to be angry all the time. It's not a good feeling, your whole being consumed by rage. Maybe it sounds hardcore, but it's scary when the only thing that will calm you down is the thought of flaying someone while he's tied to a table. It's weird when you realize you're growing a smile as you listen to your self-defense teacher explain how to gouge someone's eyes out.
I used to think my Dad had a bad temper. Who had I to compare his to but my mother's, who is as calm as they come. My Dad doesn't get as angry anymore. I guess the good Lord cures everything, because I sure fuck up just as much as, if not more than, I used to. I wonder if I'll grow out of my anger issues. I mean, will I still want to scalp every person who inconsiderately incessantly honk his horn while I'm driving when I'm 40? Hopefully not.
I've gone through a lot of instances where in I was convinced I was going to kill myself, but I don't think all the sadness and loneliness I've ever experienced can compare to my anger. I never get to express my anger in the ways I want, because killing and torturing people is illegal and I turned 18 this year. So I always end up a crying mess. Let me tell you, it is a thousand times worse crying because you're so angry than crying because you hate yourself. Actually, those two things aren't mutually exclusive, but with my anger, I feel so helpless. When I hate myself, I always think, I can always just end it if it gets to be too bad. With my anger, I feel so pathetic, because I cannot do what I want. It can be to inflict pain on someone or to destroy something.
I've spent the night locked in my room fuming, because I calmly asked my neighbors to lower the volume of their karaoke and they would not comply. I told the guards to tell them to, but they didn't listen to the guards, who seemed they couldn't care less about my problems. I don't think they understand that nobody says no to me. I have a paper on Moliere due on Tuesday and I can't even finish reading the play because of this noise. I guess it would be much better for my mental health if I let things slide, but I just can't. I don't think I'll ever be relieved unless I torture then kill those assholes. I've googled where I can purchase guns (tip: it's not E-bay) and contemplated on searching the house for one (I once saw a gun at my grandfather's closet. I wonder if my Dad owns one). My brother keeps yelling at my maid to check up on me because he thinks I will kill myself. Do not worry, brother, not over that drunk lower class animal residing in the pig sty near us.
I think everyone who's met me can tell I have a lack of restrain for my anger. Sometimes it's when someone says something ignorant like "women should stay in the kitchen" or when someone gives me an unfair grade. Suddenly I'm the crazy girl. It's not really something I want to be, so most of the time I just shut up. When people tell me something upsetting, I won't react at first, but then my palms get really sweaty and I get all fidgety. Then I might not sound crazy, but I look it anyway.
I thank whoever is responsible for horror movies, because 70% of the time, they're what get me through. There's writing too. And music. But mostly movies. With a lot of blood, and guts, and torn limbs, and peeled skin, and removed fingernails, and screeching screams for mercy. It feels like what inner peace would feel like.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
02052011
Heavy Feelings
I really thought I was over this. I am almost 18 years old. I am in college. I practically don't live in my house anymore. I should be over this. God damn, I should be more mature.
Months ago I told myself I would stop giving a fuck and, for a while, I sort of did. All those snarky comments about my weight, I just let them slide or I laughed them off. I didn't buy clothes for a long while just so my mother wouldn't notice my weight gain and therefore have a reason to berate me. I tried not to take it to heart when relatives said "Ang laki laki mo na" ("You've gotten so big"). It wasn't an issue for a while. I thought that I was done with it. I didn't hate my weight anymore and that was that.
I know weight issues are so foolish and shallow. If only these reasons were enough to make me get over it. It feels awful seeing an amazing pair of boots, but not being able to buy them because they make your legs look bigger. It feels heartbreaking seeing the same pair looking great worn by someone skinny. It feels horrible when you have to go through your whole closet looking to find an outfit that doesn't make you look like a whale and then end up crying on the pile of clothes on the ground. It feels like shit when every time you eat, someone is looking at you intentionally making you feel guilty. It feels dreadful to have to go to ask a saleslady to give you a bigger size. Everything is so trivial and yet it all seems so huge to me.
It all came coming back today. I was sitting on my bed at around 6pm. I was on my laptop while our maid was beside my bed ironing clothes. My mother was sleeping next to me. Our maid was eating Super Thin. They're these really thin crackers that melt in your mouth. She offered me some and I took four. I continued to snack on them when suddenly my mom wakes up and sees me eating. She sleepily held onto my hand and said "Tama na, kain ka nang kain. Ang laki laki mo na." ("Enough already. You keep eating and eating. You're already so big."). I was actually stunned. It wasn't unusual that she comments on my weight gain, but what she said seemed rather harsh, and for what, a few crackers? I looked at my laptop screen, but everything is blurry when your eyes are filled with water. How melodramatic. After excusing myself saying I needed to go to the bathroom, I went downstairs and locked myself inside the comfort room.
I am a total cliche. I sat there in the toilet and I just imagined myself three years ago standing in the shower, letting the water run, while I stuck a toothbrush down my throat. I cried for at least half an hour and waited for the redness of my eyes to go away for another half. I went back upstairs and my mom looks at me and asks, so casually as if she was just asking me if I was wearing a new top, if I cried. I shook my head and stared down into my laptop. I think the worst part of it all is that I only have myself to blame. I am not even angry at my mom. I am angry at myself. I wish I didn't care so much. I wish it didn't affect me so strongly. I wish I had the self-control. I wish I wasn't so unhappy.
I highly doubt that I will get over my weight issues unless I actually reach my ideal weight. For a while, maybe, it'll just get repressed and then resurface again. I am just glad I don't do such drastic things anymore when I feel this way. I guess that's a good thing. I suppose it means I'm getting better.
I am sorry for such a melodramatic cliche rant.
I really thought I was over this. I am almost 18 years old. I am in college. I practically don't live in my house anymore. I should be over this. God damn, I should be more mature.
Months ago I told myself I would stop giving a fuck and, for a while, I sort of did. All those snarky comments about my weight, I just let them slide or I laughed them off. I didn't buy clothes for a long while just so my mother wouldn't notice my weight gain and therefore have a reason to berate me. I tried not to take it to heart when relatives said "Ang laki laki mo na" ("You've gotten so big"). It wasn't an issue for a while. I thought that I was done with it. I didn't hate my weight anymore and that was that.
I know weight issues are so foolish and shallow. If only these reasons were enough to make me get over it. It feels awful seeing an amazing pair of boots, but not being able to buy them because they make your legs look bigger. It feels heartbreaking seeing the same pair looking great worn by someone skinny. It feels horrible when you have to go through your whole closet looking to find an outfit that doesn't make you look like a whale and then end up crying on the pile of clothes on the ground. It feels like shit when every time you eat, someone is looking at you intentionally making you feel guilty. It feels dreadful to have to go to ask a saleslady to give you a bigger size. Everything is so trivial and yet it all seems so huge to me.
It all came coming back today. I was sitting on my bed at around 6pm. I was on my laptop while our maid was beside my bed ironing clothes. My mother was sleeping next to me. Our maid was eating Super Thin. They're these really thin crackers that melt in your mouth. She offered me some and I took four. I continued to snack on them when suddenly my mom wakes up and sees me eating. She sleepily held onto my hand and said "Tama na, kain ka nang kain. Ang laki laki mo na." ("Enough already. You keep eating and eating. You're already so big."). I was actually stunned. It wasn't unusual that she comments on my weight gain, but what she said seemed rather harsh, and for what, a few crackers? I looked at my laptop screen, but everything is blurry when your eyes are filled with water. How melodramatic. After excusing myself saying I needed to go to the bathroom, I went downstairs and locked myself inside the comfort room.
I am a total cliche. I sat there in the toilet and I just imagined myself three years ago standing in the shower, letting the water run, while I stuck a toothbrush down my throat. I cried for at least half an hour and waited for the redness of my eyes to go away for another half. I went back upstairs and my mom looks at me and asks, so casually as if she was just asking me if I was wearing a new top, if I cried. I shook my head and stared down into my laptop. I think the worst part of it all is that I only have myself to blame. I am not even angry at my mom. I am angry at myself. I wish I didn't care so much. I wish it didn't affect me so strongly. I wish I had the self-control. I wish I wasn't so unhappy.
I highly doubt that I will get over my weight issues unless I actually reach my ideal weight. For a while, maybe, it'll just get repressed and then resurface again. I am just glad I don't do such drastic things anymore when I feel this way. I guess that's a good thing. I suppose it means I'm getting better.
I am sorry for such a melodramatic cliche rant.
03072011
It's so jarring to me when someone says a suicide is stupid. She took her life because she failed a class, because her boyfriend left her, because she had no friends. Things like these that seem so trivial when looking at the big picture, can be, to some people, worth ending their lives over.
I had that depressed phase when I was a wee bit younger. I never really acted on it, but I was just miserable all the time. I thought about killing myself everyday. I thought it was normal for teenagers to feel that way. I had always been a drama queen. I started toying with the idea of suicide ever since I was able to read (I would cry in my balcony and think of jumping whenever I got into trouble). I guess I never really did anything, because I knew it was a phase. Also, I would often think about my parents crying at my funeral, maybe even blaming themselves. I could never do that to them. I never took it too seriously knowing that actual depression would just make me seem like a needy attention whore (not saying that depressed people are. This was just my way of coping). I would just have days when I would cry for no reason. The one thing that stopped me from crying was thinking of creative ways in which I would kill myself. Up until I was 13, I figured overdosing on sleeping pills was how I would go. It seemed romantic. That was until I found out you go into painful convulsions before you die, and that I could still survive it by getting my stomach pumped, but end up having dysfunctional organs. I had to find a new way to die after that. I would read all about suicide attempts. My favorite one was bleeding yourself out in a warm bath. It seemed so beautiful, although it was something I knew I could never get myself to do. I only considered non-bloody non-gruesome suicides, because I did not want my parents' last image of me to be a horrific one. But I never limited my imagination. Somehow, thinking about ways to go calmed me down. I never did self-harm because, although I have been told to be extremely sadistic, I can never fathom hurting myself for the sake of I don't even know. If you're going to end yourself, then just fucking do it (In my opinion. Of course I do not know how politically correct anything that has to do with suicide is).
As always, I have deviated from the point. Now, I try to imagine my life ten years from now, realistically. I am working and hauling ass at some job I don't enjoy, but eventually learn not to despise. A probable scenario is that I am in a dull lifeless marriage with kids. Let's backtrack. I imagine myself six years from now in a mediocre paying job doing something I absolutely hate mooching off of my parents' money and feeling extremely guilty for it. Let's try two years from now. I am studying in Ateneo, not doing anything of any worth.
I don't think suicide is ridiculous. Sometimes, it seems like the logical answer. Sometimes, even a little thing like failing a class is enough to make someone end it all. Here's the rationale: Your life sucks and you know your future will suck. You're living just because nothing has killed you yet. Then a problem arises. It's pretty shitty- not earth-shattering, but it's still shit. You weigh the options. Is your life, your future, really worth having to deal with this? Is there something you're looking forward to, something motivating you, to keep on keeping on? For suicidal people, the answer is usually no. So that's pretty much it. It's just like when you're watching a crappy TV show at 12 noon and a commercial comes up. You think, is this show really worth waiting the commercials for or do I just go and take my afternoon nap?
I am not justifying suicide, I am simply rationalizing it. I hope no one reads this and convinces himself that suicide is the answer. I am just saying that I understand. Even though I don't know what it, an actual serious urge to kill yourself, must feel like, I do understand why people feel it. I sailed past my issues smoothly, because it was just a case of teen angst and a heightened expression of my inner drama queen. It was never a struggle for me because, to be honest, I just enjoyed feeling things- and since nothing was prompting me to feel happy, I settled for miserable.
I don't know why I suddenly started typing about this. Maybe, I am just glad that part of my life is over, although I like to revisit it at times. Anyway, I hope everyone who struggles with depression or anything of the sort can find something to ease their troubles. It doesn't have to be something as gruesome as imagining ways to die (in fact that would probably worsen things). It can be something like singing or writing or riding roller coasters even! But if it's really bad, you probably need help and asking for it is very hard because you are afraid people think it's ridiculous. I suppose I typed this all out to say it's not ridiculous. People do understand.
I had that depressed phase when I was a wee bit younger. I never really acted on it, but I was just miserable all the time. I thought about killing myself everyday. I thought it was normal for teenagers to feel that way. I had always been a drama queen. I started toying with the idea of suicide ever since I was able to read (I would cry in my balcony and think of jumping whenever I got into trouble). I guess I never really did anything, because I knew it was a phase. Also, I would often think about my parents crying at my funeral, maybe even blaming themselves. I could never do that to them. I never took it too seriously knowing that actual depression would just make me seem like a needy attention whore (not saying that depressed people are. This was just my way of coping). I would just have days when I would cry for no reason. The one thing that stopped me from crying was thinking of creative ways in which I would kill myself. Up until I was 13, I figured overdosing on sleeping pills was how I would go. It seemed romantic. That was until I found out you go into painful convulsions before you die, and that I could still survive it by getting my stomach pumped, but end up having dysfunctional organs. I had to find a new way to die after that. I would read all about suicide attempts. My favorite one was bleeding yourself out in a warm bath. It seemed so beautiful, although it was something I knew I could never get myself to do. I only considered non-bloody non-gruesome suicides, because I did not want my parents' last image of me to be a horrific one. But I never limited my imagination. Somehow, thinking about ways to go calmed me down. I never did self-harm because, although I have been told to be extremely sadistic, I can never fathom hurting myself for the sake of I don't even know. If you're going to end yourself, then just fucking do it (In my opinion. Of course I do not know how politically correct anything that has to do with suicide is).
As always, I have deviated from the point. Now, I try to imagine my life ten years from now, realistically. I am working and hauling ass at some job I don't enjoy, but eventually learn not to despise. A probable scenario is that I am in a dull lifeless marriage with kids. Let's backtrack. I imagine myself six years from now in a mediocre paying job doing something I absolutely hate mooching off of my parents' money and feeling extremely guilty for it. Let's try two years from now. I am studying in Ateneo, not doing anything of any worth.
I don't think suicide is ridiculous. Sometimes, it seems like the logical answer. Sometimes, even a little thing like failing a class is enough to make someone end it all. Here's the rationale: Your life sucks and you know your future will suck. You're living just because nothing has killed you yet. Then a problem arises. It's pretty shitty- not earth-shattering, but it's still shit. You weigh the options. Is your life, your future, really worth having to deal with this? Is there something you're looking forward to, something motivating you, to keep on keeping on? For suicidal people, the answer is usually no. So that's pretty much it. It's just like when you're watching a crappy TV show at 12 noon and a commercial comes up. You think, is this show really worth waiting the commercials for or do I just go and take my afternoon nap?
I am not justifying suicide, I am simply rationalizing it. I hope no one reads this and convinces himself that suicide is the answer. I am just saying that I understand. Even though I don't know what it, an actual serious urge to kill yourself, must feel like, I do understand why people feel it. I sailed past my issues smoothly, because it was just a case of teen angst and a heightened expression of my inner drama queen. It was never a struggle for me because, to be honest, I just enjoyed feeling things- and since nothing was prompting me to feel happy, I settled for miserable.
I don't know why I suddenly started typing about this. Maybe, I am just glad that part of my life is over, although I like to revisit it at times. Anyway, I hope everyone who struggles with depression or anything of the sort can find something to ease their troubles. It doesn't have to be something as gruesome as imagining ways to die (in fact that would probably worsen things). It can be something like singing or writing or riding roller coasters even! But if it's really bad, you probably need help and asking for it is very hard because you are afraid people think it's ridiculous. I suppose I typed this all out to say it's not ridiculous. People do understand.
01032012
It's not you, it's me. You, being the world. It's not that you've dealt me a shit hand. Definitely not that. I've got an amazing family, the kind that would creep you out and make you think you're in some Stepford house. I have the greatest friends I could ever ask for. I study in a good school. I'm physically able and could be quite smart when I want to be. I could have (had? I'm having trouble with tenses here) a pretty smooth sailing life. If I wasn't me that is. I don't know, it sounds contradictory, doesn't it? I guess all that shit- the wonderful home, the supportive friends, the fantastic education- won't matter much if I'm rotten on the inside. It's always the same thing again and again, people telling me to focus on what I have rather than what I don't, and yes I realize I have so much, but that just makes it worse. Why do I have all this and so many people don't? I don't deserve any of it. I don't deserve the house and the family and the love and the rewards. All I do is feel miserable and poison everything. I poison everything. I bring other people down. I ruin moments. I make people feel bad, because I feel bad. There are other people who have nothing, but deserve everything and they should have what I have. They'd appreciate it so much more. They wouldn't take it for granted like I have. All of New Years I spent crying and feeling horrid. The past year felt like a waste, I hadn't changed at all. And I thought I'm turning 19. And maybe people will say I'm so young but I'm not really because I can't afford to be young. I'm graduating soon and then I'd have to get a job and then I'd have to live on my own and then I don't know. Life. It's terrifying because it'd be such a huge disappointment to my parents if I don't get a good job or get my life going, because they'd worked so hard for my future. But if I stay like this I'm most certainly going to fail them. If I stay sad. If I don't see a future for myself. I am just so resigned to a life of failure. What if I have to work at a call center? What if I stay a secretary forever? What if I have to be a saleslady? In my mind I will most certainly become those things and it's horrific. And I have to live in a tiny apartment on a broken down neighborhood and I'm alone. That's the only future I see myself in and it's hard living right now when I only have that to look forward to. I don't know why I keep trying to explain it. Maybe I just want someone to understand. I want someone to sympathize with me and not make me feel like an utter failure. Like a terrible daughter. Because I'm not. In fact when I get down to it the only reason I really have been keeping myself alive is for my family. I can't do that to them you know. And I think of how they'll be all hysterical when they find out I've topped myself and I realize they love me so much. Because they do. I know it. But I just get so sad because why isn't that enough. Why isn't it enough that I have them to make me happy? What is it with human beings that expect so much out of life to be fulfilled? But I don't want to bring in the whole human race because not everybody wants to off themselves. In fact I don't really. In general, maybe I guess I do. But there are moments where I love being alive, but they are moments. And then there are times where I want to die, but they're also just moments. Most of the time I'm just alive, because nothing has killed me yet. The other day I spent an hour in the shower thinking up a way I can die the perfect death. I thought maybe for when a family member gets really sick and needs like a heart and I can give them mine. But then they'd still be really sad for losing me so that's not ideal. I realize I can't escape the truth that I'd be leaving people behind. Maybe I don't really want to die. Maybe I'm just saying I do. Maybe I'm being overly dramatic as I am wont to do. The closest I came was over the summer when I cut my wrists after my mom and I had a fight in which she went on to tell me things that I took to mean I'm worthless and I won't become anything. Of course she could have said something like "New pants" and I still would have taken offense because that's what I do, but the point is this was a pretty big fight that got to me and I figured heck their lives would be better off without me, she said so herself! So there I went cut cut snip snip but it hurt A LOT and so I was like fuck this I'll just cry myself to death, but of course that didn't work and I had to wake up the next day to go to the airport for vacation. So no, I don't think I can ever really kill myself because I've thought I could for the past maybe four years but obviously I'm still here. It's difficult to admit that because I've always considered suicide as a refuge for when life's become too bleak and dark, but I know deep down I'll just end up being miserable until I get run over by a truck or get an Ebola virus or something. But then that's all too depressing and to be honest I do really want more than anything to be rid of the sadness that seems to consume every bit of my life. I want to want to wake up and see people and do things and be alive. I want to be able to see a good future for myself and work towards it. I want to make my parents proud of me. Wanting these things is good, right? Wanting is better than apathy, I think. It's so difficult to change though. How do you start and can people really change? I think they can. I mean I'd like to think there's more to me other than my sad parts. I'm a real person underneath all of that. But sometimes I feel like those same sad parts take over all of me and I have to be a completely different person to be happy. Like I said, I'm the problem. Something inside me, like an spreading cancer. But how can I be a different person? What makes a person anyway? I don't eat vegetables. If I did would I still be me? What if I start eating vegetables and start a daily exercise routine? What if I add watching more reality TV to that? How many things do I have to change for me to not be me? I think I'll start with the vegetables thing. A new years resolution. I mean, if it doesn't work then at least I'd have gotten healthier, right?
02052012
Friday didn't start out so well. Sometimes you have dreams. They aren't bad dreams, just very weird ones. Weird in a sense that in the dream, you're not yourself. I had one of those dreams that day, and it was good, but waking up is when it starts to make me feel bad. In dreams, I can be someone other than myself. In reality, I'm still me. It's still difficult to accept it on some days. But on days where one second you're this fully functioning comfortable decent version of yourself, and the next you're back to your real self, it's even harder. It's just that these kinds of dreams, I feel like they're mocking me. They're going "Hey, Chelsea! Look at the life you could be living. Look at how great it would be to not be you!" It just feels so close, yet so far. In these dreams, I still look like me. Sometimes I am taller. Sometimes I am thinner. People like me. I like myself. When you're who you want to be, and then suddenly you're not, it sucks. I tried to sleep again so that maybe I would forget it. I only ended up being late for school. And no, I didn't forget it. So what could I do but stay in bed all day? Nobody else was there so I had the privacy-- to cry and not wear pants and talk to myself. That lasted until the sun went down and my roommates got home. I had to wear pants then.
I figured I would watch TV. TV is good. Movies are good too. Books also. They keep me occupied. I didn't have to think anymore. I watched a lot of Sailor Moon. Then I watched a lot of Suits. That was nice. The thing with those dreams, I had to think about my life and myself and the loathing I have for both. But the point is I am the focal point of it all. And that makes me sad. If I were to never have to remember that this is who I am and this is the life I lead, then I would be happy. TV does that, even for just a short 25 minute episode. I don't have to remember me. There's only Usagi who is a 14 year old crybaby that transforms into a superhero wearing the skimpiest clothes. I like her. I felt better after 8 episodes.
I really should not let dreams destroy my day. But sometimes I just get so sad that I cannot get out of bed. But nothing a little escapism cannot solve.
I figured I would watch TV. TV is good. Movies are good too. Books also. They keep me occupied. I didn't have to think anymore. I watched a lot of Sailor Moon. Then I watched a lot of Suits. That was nice. The thing with those dreams, I had to think about my life and myself and the loathing I have for both. But the point is I am the focal point of it all. And that makes me sad. If I were to never have to remember that this is who I am and this is the life I lead, then I would be happy. TV does that, even for just a short 25 minute episode. I don't have to remember me. There's only Usagi who is a 14 year old crybaby that transforms into a superhero wearing the skimpiest clothes. I like her. I felt better after 8 episodes.
I really should not let dreams destroy my day. But sometimes I just get so sad that I cannot get out of bed. But nothing a little escapism cannot solve.
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