Melancholia

 

(Loving Vincent, 2017)

If there's anything that I've consistently been doing, it's crying without apparent reason. It's that deep sadness that aches me. It's this uncertain loneliness when I'm not particularly lonely. 

Is it melancholia? Is it depression again? 

I am trying to be gentle with myself. I tried to bring myself into a conversation - mindfully dissecting my emotions and validating them. 

Yesterday, I burst into tears in the middle of work. Perhaps I've been hard on myself, stressing over my lack of productivity at work despite having plenty to do. It's not that I didn't want to do it - I just didn't know where to begin. I pressured myself to produce results.

On the other hand, I googled why it always seemed like I am seeking validation.  For years, I tried to convince myself that I, myself, am enough. I don't require external validations - but I know that this is my inner-child screaming for me to treat the wound. I grew up trying so hard to please my parents, and by giving them what they wanted, I got rewarded and praised. My parents would feel proud, albeit temporarily. I yearned to be validated. I yearned for praises and approval. I wanted to be enough. So when things didn't go the way they wanted it to be, I became nothing but a constant subject of complaints. It became one of the most painful periods of my life. 

I put a lot of effort and thoughts into the things that I do, in general, because let's be honest, sometimes I am a people pleaser. When instead of feeling appreciated, you get knocked down by a list of what went wrong - it's easy to just crumble again. All that effort felt so wasted and maybe I made a mistake somewhere somehow. 

So I told myself, at this present moment ... I feel small, and that I have shrunk myself again. I have to allow this sadness to pass and let the stormy days do what it needs to do. Because surely, even when the darkness wraps you up at night, it will be bright again. I know this because I took the time to observe the sunrise this morning. I took the time to breathe. I took the time to look up, close my eyes and let the wind gently blow on my face. 

That's my rant for today. Thanks for reading anyway. 

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Please Be Mine, Again

 

artwork by (link: http://instagram.com/madampeanut) instagram.com/madampeanut

This was a post that I wrote a while ago, but this remains as part of me and will always be. This memory continues to haunt me and suffocate me in my sleep, and also the reason for me to keep fighting for myself. 

RK

@rkkaaay

“Your trauma made u stronger” No, my trauma made me traumatized, it made me weak, gave me sleepless nights and memory loss, it gave me feelings I’ve never wanted. I made myself stronger, by dragging myself out of a dark place and dealing with consequences that weren’t my fault.

* * * * *

I've been thinking for quite some time now. About all the things that took so many years to process, digest, and accept. 

The story of my past clings on to me like a shadow I have to drag with me wherever I go. It has no voice, but it's always there. 

To care and love for yourself is not always easy, especially when you tend to get clouded with your own self-judgment, and when you also have the tendency to self-sabotage. It's a constant battle of staying grounded and letting yourself drift away in those moments where you just don't have the energy to fight. How can darkness be so comfortable sometimes? 

I was too young when I first wrote about my experiences as a victim of molestation and sexual assault. I was naive and was still very much scarred from it all. I thought I knew what I was going through. When it happened, I had no one to talk to. I kept it to myself for years before I was able to write about it. Even my mom only found out through that blog. 

It has been 15 years since that posting, and yet here I am today to tell you why that part of my life still bothers me most. Although I am barely remembering the details of the occurrences, I believe it all happened from when I was 9 - 13. In the beginning, it seemed like a harmless, friendly gesture. Like how you'd come up to a little kid and pinch their cheeks because they're cute. Over time, it became uncomfortable. It's when his firm hand grabbed my tiny hand and placed it neatly on his lap. This became a habit of his. Years, my hands had been on his laps and way too close to his private part. He watched me turned into a teenager. I was going through puberty and my breasts were growing. I could never forget that afternoon, he went to my room to grope my breasts and locked me with his arms. I could never forget my scream that felt so quiet and deafening at the same time. I could never forget breaking down to my knees with so much rage and anger that I decided to hate myself for such a long time. 

I was so angry at myself when it wasn't my fault. I was so angry at God for making me go through such an awful period of my life. I constantly wanted to die. I did not want the body I had. I was fuelled with negativity that I stopped looking at the brighter side of things. I was wasteful of my own youth. 

On top of it all, I was full of fear.

Fear of intimacy, attention, and love. I wore layers of clothing just to hide my skin. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror because I hated my reflection. It's as if my body was the cause of it all. I ruined relationships that could've worked out because I couldn't give pieces of myself away. I said I had none. I said it didn't belong to me. A slight affection and intimacy could trigger everything for me. I was traumatised. 

I honestly thought that was it. Just this fear and trauma that kept haunting me, but what's worst was how it messed me up completely. Realising this, I felt fucked up. As much as I was afraid of intimacy, I craved it. There had been days when I would feel aroused and wanting to be touched but the major part of myself knows the moment anyone lays a finger on me, I'd probably freak out. I didn't even want to touch any part of my body unless I was taking a shower.

When I wanted to heal myself through self-care, self-love, and mindfulness - I thought it was enough to just work on my heart and brain. I thought it was enough that I could work on my mentality so I could see things with much clarity and good conscience. I forgot about what broke me in the first place. I forgot about the years of extreme trauma and fears. I thought it was my heartbreak that needed the healing that I abandoned the body I've used for shelter. 

I began to question whether it was normal to love your mind, and your soul but not your body? Where would that put me? How do I reclaim this body so I could accept it? My body and skin are strangers to me that if I could detach myself from it - I would. I'd ask for another body that's never been touched by a man that I have to see so often, whom I have to constantly forgive - yet he looks at me as if shaking his hand would mean that I've been OK with everything. He stole away my skin, my body, my reflection before I could see them. How do I fix this?

While self-care and self-love have taught me to be compassionate with myself, and how to cope with my depression and anxiety, I still struggle to look at my body with the same compassion I have for my mental health. I wish things don't have to be this hard. I wish I could simply alter my mind to believe that I could be loved and love in the way that I should - fully and wholly. I wish I don't have to pause and freeze when something reminds me of what had happened. I wish I could love myself naked.

It truly sucked when someone called me beautiful cause I looked at my body first and be disgusted with it. Sigh. It's so messed up. I couldn't even bring myself to imagine what other victims who went through much scarier and unfortunate incidents had to go through just to survive the day.

I honestly don't know where this post is going to bring me but I'm trying to release this part of myself, so I can make space for self-acceptance. So I could look at my naked body and appreciate every inch of my skin, every scar that's taken too long to heal and fade. Every scar that never fades, and the imperfection of it that defines who I am. Skin, body, mind, and soul.

I want to be able to love myself completely before anyone else can. That's the only selfish act that I will never be sorry for.

Dear body, 

Please be mine again. 

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Final Entry About You

I wrote this about you the night I realised my feelings for you - March 2019. 

We had known each other for four years then, long enough to say that we were quite comfortable with each other's presence. I didn't see you as often as I wished I could so anytime I got to see you were always so meaningful and memorable. You took me to places and I was never disappointed. 

I felt safe around you, and I almost believed you were the one. I always kept your name in my prayers, hoping God would shed some light and things would work out between us. I used to be so sure about how you felt towards me, but I made some choices in the past to understand that I couldn't possibly deserve someone like you. I admired you. I admire your confidence, wisdom, and charm, and somehow I really really wanted you to be the one for me. I did. Sigh. 

It's been almost 2 years since I wanted to write this post. I couldn't write it because I was too scared that I could hurt someone else's feelings. Yet, I've been trying to heal from the pain that I was going through that I got too scared to talk about it. I didn't want it to be the reason for me to lose something that is currently good in my life right now, so I buried everything and hoped that I would someday just forget about it. 

But who am I kidding? I couldn't move on from losing someone I have cared for years in a blink. It was easier for you because you had your reasons, but you ghosted me and left me wondering for months and years. Things turned sour so quickly. From you giving me the hope of publishing a book together, to suddenly ignoring all my messages without any explanations. I was so lost, and it hurts me so much just how stupid it made me feel. I kept apologising for things I was unsure of. I kept trying to reconnect with you but I was only left on read. It made me wonder why you hadn't blocked me yet. Did you want me to contact you and begged my way to forgiveness? But what am I sorry for?

I felt like a bad person, even if I tried so hard to keep myself down low so I wouldn't cause trouble or make noises. I made so many mistakes in the past that I've never been more cautious with how I react to situations. I say less, and do less just so I could slowly learn to detach myself from the world. I had several depressive episodes because of how you treated me. I was in such a dark place, I never knew a person could make me feel this way. I cried so many nights, and I felt so stupid for the feelings I accumulated for someone unworthy of my time, emotions, and mental space. I guess it hurts because I dreamt of a future with you - I saw you, and us together and that exact moment was when I made myself believe you were the one. It was very random, because it just happened in a moment while you were driving me, and it was raining then you smiled. Outside felt chaotic, yet I was in peace with you. It was a beautiful yet brief moment that all I wanted to do was hold you. I thought those were the kind of moments people talked about when you ask them how they know their partner was the one. I guess I was wrong. I guess it has to be more magical than just the rain and a smile. 

My last tear for you was probably the night I sent you my last text. It took me hours to compose it, without sounding desperate. I thought after keeping myself distant for a year would make you change your mind but you still wouldn't talk to me. It was rude but I finally felt relieved just how more accepting I was to the fact that you will continue to become a stranger, and the silence between us will keep stretching us apart. There will come a day that I won't miss you anymore. I will continue to pray for God to remove you from my heart and mind, and to accept the reality that I can't always get closure. 

This marks the end of your presence in my life. If we were ever to cross paths again, I hope I can offer you a smile or two, without hearing a crack in my heart. For now, I would start dimming the lights on you. 

* * * *

Treating those who had hurt you with compassion, kindness, and an open mind is not something anyone could do. I am glad I am one of those people who could still do that and learn to forgive the past. It's probably naive to do so, but the world is so temporary that what's the point of letting another person suffer over silly mistakes. 

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My Depression is Silent

Sometimes it feels like I'm trying to walk on three ropes when I only have two feet. I'm carrying a weight of unspoken thoughts that seem to be haunting me lately. 

Some days I just float around and feel nothing, and then some days, I shatter before my feet could walk. My heart beats rapidly enough I want to rip my chest open and just take it off. I don't want to feel like this, but my depression is silent. 

It sucks to think that this world is so temporary but it's so damn hard to live in it. It's knowing that it's temporary that makes you wonder if it really is worth the fight. If it's going to end, then what's the point? Then again, who doesn't want to enter paradise? 

I guess my purpose is clear. It is not to be some successful career woman, with good fortune and happy family but it's to savor the broken bits of this all-pretense life. Maybe I'm not supposed to give all the love that I have for a man, but to my own family if it means that I have to care for it for my entire life. 

Many nights I fall asleep with tears on my pillow, and then I wake up forgiving you, and I pray that God forgives you too. If that's not love, I don't know what is. It's easy to dismiss people's effort to care and love for you because it's not valid if you can't see it, right? I know you never asked for me, or for us, and you dreamt of a life much grand than this - but perhaps, for once, instead of asking God to forgive you, I ask of Him to open your eyes and see us for who we truly are. That every day we forgive you for being a flawed human being and we have accepted you as is. I hope one day you can reciprocate. I hope I'll see you in Heaven and still call you my parents. 

Should I die before you, and if you happen to find my journals or this post, I want you to understand that your children hurt just the same way you do. That we suffer in silence, and that we try very hard to please you. And I know that there is an unspoken rule that we do not express our love verbally, but us coming home every night, and still being so close to you is love unspoken. Ask one of us how we are, instead of where we are. Ask us if we're happy, instead of giving us pieces of advice to make you happy. Call us, and tell us that you too cry in your sleep because you can't bear the thought of us getting hurt, or getting sick. Tell us, for once and for all, that we are more than enough and you too hope we'll see each other again in Heaven, as a family. 

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BLACKHOLE

Last night, instead of crying myself to sleep, I let it all out just before shutting myself down. I was on my knees begging and praying that I hope not to lose faith, and if I needed to confront this situation, I pray I would handle it gently and with utmost patience. 

I'm truly disappointed with how things turned out to be. How ugly and painful truth can be. It's so overwhelming. 

I didn't realise how long it has been since I've been this depressed and anxious. I forgot just how excruciatingly exhausting and how suffering it is to stay above water, especially when you don't know how to swim. I know better than to suffer in silence, and writing this post does not make me weak. Admitting that I am indeed not okay is one of the many steps to regain my strength and to preserve myself. 

If I needed to go through this course alone, then God shall guide me through it. If this was the purpose of my existence here, then I shall do my best to save it before it really breaks. But who would've thought, right? 

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Unpleasant Fantasies

Waves, they all come in waves.

I think about it over and over again, wondering what people would think about me, wondering if I'd be judged for my thoughts, actions and words. Well, of course, people do. Everybody judge. 

I've had a fair amount of ups and downs this year. Certainly better than last year but I still can't run away from what's been haunting me for as long as I've been aware of it. My depression. 

I embrace good days and I take care of my dark days. I would normally spend some time alone until the storm passes. I started to privatised my account because the idea of letting myself be seen by public eyes put a certain amount of pressure. I often feel I needed to be a different version of myself, a likeable type but I have no shame of what I have, so why should I hide it from you, right? 

Except, you would think this is a cry for attention. 

It's not. I can't simply talk about it because when you speak of it, it always sounds ridiculous and stupid. 

Yesterday, I took out a cutter from my pencil case. I followed the lines on my palm with the blade. I clenched the blade slowly and started to fantasise about killing myself. I visualised pulling the blade out and slitting my wrist, watching the blood flow out of my body contemplating whether I should change my mind or let it be. And while I thought about this, I was already crying because I couldn't fathom why I've been fantasising my own death lately. 

This afternoon, I googled "How long would it take to die if you slit your wrist?" 

10 minutes. That's long enough for one to change her mind about dying. It's long enough for you to scream out for help. 

It's so stupid of me to think that I've gotten better, and then suddenly I fell into another hole again. This time, the hole is a well filled with water, and I'm drowning. Yet, who's coming to pull me out of this well, huh?

When I told people about my dreams, they always called me weird. Sure, I get weird dreams that very often symbolised the thoughts I've been trying to suppress in my waking life. Thoughts about how pissed, upset or angry I am towards certain people yet I could never express them openly because that would be wrong. Why does it always feel like I'm not entitled to my own feelings? Why do I still go on living pretending as if it never bothered me?

Seriously, how do people do it? Hurt someone's feeling and still be able to live through life without a pinch of guilt in their bone? And why are we so quick to assume the worst of people, when they've been so nice just because you've heard one rumour?

If I ever wanted to kill myself,
it's only because I wanted the pain to stop hurting me.

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On Anxiety and Depression

I just came across a Thought Catalog article that really hit close to home.  I was reading and trying not to sob and puke from knowing just how much I could relate to it.

“If you are depressed you are living in the past, if you are anxious you are living in the future,” Lao Tzu.

I can’t say that that’s not true. We worry about things that we shouldn’t really have been. We see what could go wrong first before we notice everything that’s right. We are constantly panicking not to panic. It’s exhausting.

We are not anxious all the time, but new information may trigger it. Say you want to meet us at a new restaurant at an unfamiliar location, what do we do? We get anxiety attack. Our mind suddenly explode into all these tiny possibilities of what could go wrong: “I might get lost!” “I will be late if I get lost!” “Which way is faster?” “Which way has less traffic?” “Damn, does that mean I have to take the roundabout?” “Which lane of the roundabout?” “Why isn’t it on a map?” “How do I navigate my way there?” “What time should I leave?” “How far is it from home?” and it goes on and on and on that we pretty much lose sleep over it. Our chest tighten and we can't breathe until it's over.

Little things in our daily life can be consuming and our brain just never stops processing and producing all of these possibilities that are so unnecessary. It’s the same with promises and plans; we just don’t like to be disappointed.

And what about depression?

Depression is the scariest of it all. It puts our lives on the edges of everything.  We don’t like to be told as if we’ve never gotten help, we tried. It’s not something that just goes away, and you don’t simply find a cure for it. Yes, everyone struggles but not everyone suffers. We are always trying to lessen the suffering we get from depression, but sometimes we just can’t fight it. Life becomes pitch black, numb and heavy. It’s sweetness in our body forgotten, replaced with every inch of pain we could possibly feel. We have no words for it. We just let it take its course and believe the storms will soon pass.

A little over four months ago, I had one of those moments. It was so terrifying that I was too afraid to get out of the house. I couldn’t trust myself. I’ve had suicidal thoughts in the past but it was the first time in my life that I felt determined to do it. Everything that I saw and held gave me an idea of how it could kill me. For the longest 2 weeks of my life, I was afraid of myself. I called up a friend, who was in counselling and sought for help. I talked to someone who had been on pills, but told him that I didn’t want it because at that time, I was already thinking of overdosing myself. And in the midst of all that, where was my partner?

I was alone, lonely, unloved and uncared for and the only person, who could pick me up, was myself. I knew I needed to give the care and comfort I needed so I did exactly that. It wasn’t easy but I was glad there were people I could talk to every now and then, and motivated me to find ways to stand up again.

On my way to recovery, more unfortunate events befell me; wedding cancelled, my project got defunded and then I was told to resign. And soon, my grandma’s passing. Shouldn’t these give me more reasons to be depressed? Well, no. It doesn’t work like that. Like I said, we have very little control over it. When it happens, it happens.

So being with someone like me isn’t easy, and I don’t blame them for leaving, for not seeing a future with me. We are a lot to handle, and we get it. That’s why sometimes we’re upfront about it so that you can back out before it’s too late, before we get too attached hoping that you would be the one to catch us when we fall – literally falling into a dark pit.

But there are some of us who are stronger than you might think. We know what it feels like to be in such an emotional state, that we can be compassionate and loving. We have so much love in our soul to give. We want so much to treat others with kindness and warmth that we do want to make so many people around us happy. Yes, we get crazy sometimes but if you just stick with us through it, maybe it won’t come and visit as often. And we would like that very very much.

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Poetry

In 2015, I've successfully compiled 3 sets of unpublished collection, with one being submitted for an Art Installation, which was exhibited at the end of November last year. In every of the collection, I dedicated it to my late grandparents whose strength and love made me believe in myself more than my own parents.

The first poem that I wrote was in 2006 about my grandmother. It moved my whole class, that I kept wanting to express myself in poetry more than any other medium. Below is the last piece I wrote in December 2015, and in another entry I will try to elaborate more on why it meant so much to me:

"TELL ME WHAT'S WRONG"

My skin is a gallery of unhealed wounds
constantly touched by others who insisted
that I should have it fixed

I am a problem
people bring to discussion
because there is always a solution to everything

My body is full of scars of memories
scars of bullied days
scars of that one afternoon
that would then traumatised me for life

Don’t ask me what’s wrong;
I don’t know and I don’t want to talk about it

Listen to me when I said I don’t want to talk about it
because my mind is repeatedly trying to convince
itself that this too shall pass
I just needed time to let it go

You tell me to take my time
but do you see me standing at the edge of the cliff?
Yet you are constantly pushing me and
one more I know I will fall

My darling,
            My depression is trying to kill me
            and lately I have little willpower to fight against it

It tells me to pick up the pills
and swallow them whole
It tells me to smash my head
until I can paint everything red
just the way it likes it
When I drive, it tells me
to slower down my brake response
so that I would run over the BMW in front of me

Is this what you wanted to hear?
That I see no point of living
when love is a heartache
and I feel more safer in my own blanket
than the security of your arms?

I am not pushing you away
but my depression has built a wall
to protect me from the harm
of your misunderstood thoughts

I am trying to open the door
but my hands tremble
and I see my feet shatter before me

I pick them up
but my hands bleed
and still you tell me to
“get yourself together already”

Can’t you see I’m trying?
I am trying but the darkness is coming
and I can’t find the exit door now
So please bring me light
and stop knocking on my door
I can’t see

If this a game for you
then honey, you’ve won a long time ago

If you’ve never needed me then why are you still here?

Stop telling me to fix my brokenness
when that’s all I’ve ever known
I never wanted it fixed anyway

I just needed someone to understand
that like a broken vase
I am always a little too fragile even when I’m a piece once more

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