I was just going through some of my documents, when I found this. I wrote it on 10/22/2014. I’ve completely forgotten about it. It was like reading it for the first time. And I wish to never, ever feel like this again.
a note on self-image
Is this how I should’ve turned out to be: self-sufficient, resourceful, amenable to risqué-taking, fearless, reckless, entrepreneurial… tall, dark, handsome and, most importantly, male?
I am a failure of a human being in many respects, but most of all I have failed those closest to me for being born. I am deeply convinced that my birth is a cosmological slip. My entire world is mostly in its most forceful within my mind, while I regard all outside-world intrusion with great hostility.
I am a human being incapable of functioning.
Every deviation from the pattern is like physical pain.
If I can’t change the world so that it brings me least pain, then I should change myself to fit the world, shouldn’t I?But I don’t want to change myself. And what part of me am I to change anyway? Appearance? Speech? Manners? WHAT?!
The world is not a welcoming place to cowards like me.
I can’t fix myself
Do I want to fix myself
I had obviously gathered quite a bundle of issues here. This was impulsively written, but still, it is clear that I wasn’t happy with my existence.
I remember that.
I remember living with ever-increasing difficulty. It was like every day was sucking my energy dry. I couldn’t wait to get home after classes and sleep. And I’d still wake up tired. I was looking like shit and I felt like shit. I listened to NIN’s old stuff mostly and thought how the music was definitely all about me. I smoked pretty regularly at that point. And I knew something was wrong, but I also thought that was the reality of things.
The world was chaos. People were chaos. Everywhere I turned to everything seemed unstable and pointless. So, I eventually started thinking about my own pointlessness.
I would still communicate with my colleagues and my family, though, as if everything was just splendid. I don’t know. It seemed like a good move. I thought they couldn’t help me, so what would be the point? I didn’t even know how to say, “Help me!”, until I got physically sick, basically, having my body say it for me.
Also, issues with my sex… That’s totally cute. Talking about how uncomfortable I would feel in my own skin.
I think I know why I wrote that. I thought that if I had been born male, the world would have been a nicer place for me. I’d feel more confident. I wouldn’t have to prove myself worthy.
This is a fucking mess. But, still, I need this. I need to know why I felt the way I did.
I have always been an introvert. I’d express my emotions through drawing and painting — that was my passion. The world and people were a viability. And, I guess, going to boarding school was a shock and I’d need a Ford Knox to pay for the therapy (that’s why I blog — I’m trying to save some money).
A fucking mess.
But, on the bright side, I no longer think that dividing people in such broad categories as gender and then making generalizations is of great use. Approaching people on individual level is what matters.
I don’t know. I wish I had written about something more cheerful. It’s just… I read my own words, written half a year ago, and I felt painfully sad. I had fucked up. I did terrible things to myself and I was convinced it was something grand and inevitable.
I hope the next thing I write about will have more digestible humor and more rays of sunshine in it.