A best friend of mine said that to me maybe three years ago or so and I probably already wrote her words in some other post or writings. But that only proves how her words still lift me up, more than anyone else's could, until this day. We don't talk as much anymore, but as I am embarking on a journey and embracing my life as an undergrad student, she's graduating soon and am sure she will do an even better, greater things afterwards because she already is; because in ways I hope she knows, she inspired me and her drive encourages me to never give up and always working hard towards all the things I want in life. That I should always work hard for everything, not taking it all for granted.
The last one week or so my emotional state was in many ways unstable. Once again it fluctuates between the extremes. The reason why I'm writing this is because, although it is harder to write it this way, but it is easier to understand. But that is all I can hope for: easier to be understood. Because I spend my life feeling misunderstood, abandoned, forgotten, and as if all these words I had in me is simply a thing to be ignored. As if every time a word came out of my mouth, what happened is it became a white noise, as if I speak in a different frequency than all of these people; as if I don't speak clear enough, or loud enough for these people to hear me, that is why, with a confused look on their faces, they don't say a word before they turn their backs on me. Or sometimes, they have this look on their faces that say they simply don't care of what I just said.
As much as I try to control it, it never happens the way I want it. But when everything else around me is falling apart, I would like to have something that can give me a sense of control. That is why I plan. Plan and plan and plan. Then when everything around me feels like it's standing still, while I'm the one that is falling apart, I write and read and write and read. I tell the pages of my books the things I don't say out loud; the things that are hard to say; the things that make people feel uncomfortable; the things that people don't understand. I tell the pages of my books the things I don't understand and know how to explain and make someone understand. I tell the pages of my books the things I wish can be understood, easily, but in reality, not. All these pages and books, rescue me from my own self. They guide me to where I needed to go. They cheer me up and cheer me on. They gave me a home when a home doesn't even feel like home.
So I put my pen down for awhile and taking a momentary break from writing what is harder to be said in poetry, and coming back to a familiar place to write.
As was said, the last one week or so my emotional state fluctuates and
I want to be me; unapologetically be me. But in times when your mind could not even be trusted, it is easier to listen to the cruel voice inside. In moments of clarity, I apologized to myself for listening to them; for not trying hard enough to come out of the storms unwounded; for making the wound deeper. Because the worse the episode, and the deeper the wound, the more I grew silent about it. The worse it gets, the more I want to keep it to myself because it is easier to unapologetically be me when you're not forced to be anybody else; when no one asks you to be anybody else—in a way that doesn't make them feel any discomfort, or makes yourself feel like a burden to them more than you already are especially by telling them your sad and pathetic story. Also, it is easier to keep it all to yourself because then you don't have to have all these expectations of them understanding you and all these expectations that maybe, just maybe, that you will get better. To be fair, while it didn't always last, I did get better even if for a little while.
All my life I have learned to suffer in silence, it's the only way I know how. I have this habit of mine that is in some unseen ways destructive—instead of saying things out loud, I stay quiet. The more complicated it is, the harder it is to be said, the more I keep it to myself. As sometimes our thoughts imprison us from doing whatever it is we wanted to do, from saying the thing that is not should left unsaid, and the worst part is, sometimes from letting us grow or simply keeping us away from happiness and closer to sorrow. Then, someone asked me of what I want from them and today he asked what he can do to make things better. Instead of answering it, I grew silent. I have all these things in my head, all these words, and all these sentences. But I cannot have what I want. He cannot give me what I want that would probably make things better which is for everything to never happen in the first place, because it already did and time travel isn't really possible so that's that, why bother to even say it. So he decided to leave and I wasn't surprised by his action. Just like having the expectation that he will understand after all the poetry that I wrote (but didn't); the expectation that he will never make me feel like shit on my own birthday (but did); the expectation that he will never hurt me in ways I wish he didn't (but did); leaving was the thing that was expected, staying this long was on my desired list but it wasn't on the expectation list.
My friend once was so perplexed by my coldness and cynical way of seeing love, she (or he, I couldn't remember who said it, to be perfectly frank with you) said to me, "I don't know what's wrong with you. I don't know how you can be so cold because I know you want to feel something. But why do you build up a wall so high no one can climb it? Why do you push people away? It's like you exile everyone before they can even knock on your door. Why?" to this very day I still have no idea how to answer that in a short way because I'm not even sure I can even explain it with the long version. Can anyone explain it to me why? Why do I push people away? Why is it that I would rather choose to not give a fuck than feeling it all? Why is it that I would rather choose to not talk about things that I know needed to be talked about and dismiss it as if it's not important enough for me anymore when it still is? Tell me. I would like to know the answer to the things I don't even know and too tired to listen to what myself have to say about because it hurts too much already. That is also why I don't mind writing for myself. I don't mind writing myself a love letter because no one can reach the deepest part of my darkest thoughts, except me and I think that is okay. So maybe I should stop writing, not completely. I will still write but I will simply stop writing about you and for you. Maybe then you don't have to understand—or tries to–what goes on inside this head of mine. Maybe the best way to love you is to release you from all these expectations and all these burden. Maybe the best way to understand you is grew silent about my pain and scars. And you know, you expect people to disappoint you, but then what if you one day wake up and realised that you are the disappointment? So maybe, being me—carrying all the unwanted package—isn't the best way to approach this, maybe the best way to be the best for you is to not be me.
The worst distance that could happen between someone is one that is caused by misunderstanding and miscommunication. I have always known that from time to time you need to show and tell someone how you feel and yes, some people will eventually leave because they don't understand the silence you're creating. But in moments of clarity, I hoped that there is still some good people around and if I'm lucky enough, at that moment I wish to someday found that good person and they won't leave no matter what happens. But then again, we still need words and not just noises to understand the silence we don't understand. I truly do cherish every moment that we spend together; all your imperfection; your strength, passion and patience; the surreal quality of your complex mind; the beauty of your smile; and I cherish you as a person, that is kind and gentle. I truly and utterly thankful to have you in my life and I once also wrote, "you're the only temporary thing in my life that I want to make permanent." I stand true to my words, even after all the pain I cause you and you cause me. I want to be bound to you and only you. I don't know how else to convince you how much I love you. But I guess it's not a matter of being persuasive, it's a matter of being enough or not and maybe all of it wasn't enough. Maybe complexity isn't for you.
It pains me that I have to look to another person or place and take refuge in them because you cannot give me the warmth that I needed and the air for me to breathe. It pains me that you think I don't appreciate you and all the things you have done for me. It pains me that you think I don't try to understand you as much as you try to understand me. It pains me that there is a high probability in order for me to heal and to release you from the immense expectations I put on you, is by stop writing about and for you. It pains me that you drink to cope from me, while I cut to cope with my pain. It pains me that you made me feel unappreciated with my writings. It pains me that you have to make me happy out of obligation. It pains me that my pain causes you pain. It pains me that my burden becomes yours. It pains me that you don't get the best thing that you truly deserve from me. Yet it also pains me that some days, you turn out to be just like everyone and hurts me. It pains me. Writing this pains me. But compared to my poetry, maybe it will be easier for you to understand. If it didn't, then I will truly, for the last time, truly release you and will once again only write mostly for myself. But when that happens, don't blame me or wonder why I don't write about you anymore or for you anymore. When it happens, don't ask me to write about you or for you again. When it happens, don't hate me for it. To be release is what you wanted, and will be your choice.
In so many ways, I wish to be proven wrong but just like you I, unfortunately, don't always get to experience that. But that's okay, because I have been keeping myself warm and helping myself breathe when it aches all over, and I'm afraid I can do it again.
Much love,
C.L. xxx
