You were happiness

Prompt: I am trying to think of all the times when words didn’t work, and all the times I used pain to remind myself that I am still alive

Every day pass like it didn’t pass. Every day I’m tired. Every day felt restless. Everyday I think of you, and with each day that goes unnoticed, every inch of my existence becomes more agonizing than the previous.

I’m becoming more hollow and empty. So empty I had to inflict my own pain to verify that I’m still alive. I’m practically screwing my life up. I overthink and overanalyze everything. I feel like my inability to confront my problems further aggravated my flawed system of self-consolation. I liked swimming in my idiosyncrasies. I was addicted to my own pain. Eventually it developed to this strange disposition to crying. And more often than not, I find comfort in self-flagellation.

Yet, and yet—the more acute my pain is, the number I get. It dawned on me that maybe I was the one who created this void inside me. It’s odd—I self-inflict because I wanted to feel something; yet I’m becoming numb because I kept hurting myself. I don’t know. It went both ways. It was an endless cycle of numbing and infliction. I numb myself to forget pain. I become numb. Number. And number. Then cry because I can’t feel anything. And when I can’t feel anything, I inflict my own pain. It was a series of irony and contradiction. I was a paradox.

Whenever I become too happy, I sedate myself with thoughts of anxiety and apprehension. I didn’t like being happy—or at least being too happy. I was attached to my pain. I hated it, but it kept me company for too long I appreciated it. It knew me more than anything. I was myself with it. I grew so comfortable with it that happiness makes me uneasy. Happiness is nice, but oftentimes it scares me. It likes to make promises. It brings me to another world, of butterflies and fantasies. It brings me to places of bright and wonder. It acquaints me with hopefulness and buoyancy. But it doesn’t stay for long. It leaves.

It always leaves.

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like being left—hanging suspended; lost, nowhere to go.

The discomfort it gave me sends me running back to pain. Because in pain, I found comfort. There was a degree of constancy. Happiness was inconsistent and spontaneous.

You were happiness.

Do you understand how fragile you’ve made me?

Every day I die because I could feel me fading and you don’t take notice.
Every day I die wishing you would initiate something and you weren’t trying.
Every day I die because you don’t know how much your indifference hurt me.
Every day I die knowing I’m the only one dying.

How come I’m always the one dying?
Why am I always the fool?
Why am I always the one in bed crying?

Why?

Why?

You were there and at the same time you’re not.
You were looking at me and you’re not.
You were talking to me and you’re not.

Am I reflected in your eyes?

When you’re empty
And someone fills you up
And then leaves

You realize that there was something
emptier than empty

That you’re capable of feeling
hollower than hollow

Flickering, fading

The pages of my planner were deprived of content ever since you happened to me.

I stopped planning. Stopped organizing my schedule. Stopped thinking ahead. Stopped looking forward.

I spent most of my time and money getting drunk, wasting away wherever, whenever, and with whomever. I drink to forget but I only remember the pain more vividly in each sting of alcohol. I kept drink anyway. I flirted with every cute guy I encounter. I started smoking too. I started ruining myself and turned into everything I hated.

I was in denial at first. I always was.

When I realized how lost I’ve become, I finally accepted that you broke me.

And I don’t know who I’ve turned into. I look in the mirror and hate who I see.

“At least you’re prettier”, is what I tell her.

“At least you’re not sad”, is what she tells me.

I guess––or at least I convince myself––that that’s what matters.

 

I’m not sad.

I’m not sad.

It should be me, that should be me

I’ve done everything I can to convince myself that this isn’t the universe where we end up together. Tried to rest content with the idea that in another universe, we were together.

But like the other failed times, I’m here again. Crying. Crying at every realization that I wanted, badly wanted that to be this universe. 

Why can’t it be? Why can’t it be in this world?

Freefall, freedom

It just really is nice to think about killing yourself sometimes. It’s nice to think what people might have to say when you’re gone. It’s nice to think that you won’t have to deal with any of these anymore.

I don’t know if it’s getting worse, but I only get this kind of attacks past midnight. But they’re happening as early as 6pm now. I contemplate about dying. I contemplate about disappearing all of a sudden. I contemplate about cutting the rope, about giving up that tree branch that kept me from falling off the cliff.

It’s nice. I get a distinct kind of ecstasy from thinking about suicide. Because then I won’t have to think. Then I won’t have to feel. Then I won’t have to see how things end. How things change from better to worse.

I don’t want to have to deal with anything. I want to sleep. And I don’t want to deal with whatever the next morning has to offer.

I’m tired.

Pointless. Boring. Stupid. Repetitive. The same lessons learned. The same lessons unlearned. The same lessons relearned. The same lessons but the world does not change. It still tries to destroy you. It teaches you new things only to test new ways to torture you.

I don’t want any of these anymore
I don’t want to need to be understood
I don’t want to need to understand anyone

I don’t want to think
I don’t want to feel

Remove my chains
Let me fall off the cliff

That’s where this is going anyway
One day, I’m going to have to kill myself
So just kill me now

Just let me die

It’s a trap

Having no specific goal or not knowing what you really want can be too much of an obstacle, really. A lot of people have asked me about what I wanted to do, and it was natural that I answered in accordance to what they say I’m good at. Because I didn’t really have an answer. I’d only blabber and confuse people with my self-contradictions.

My being a jack of all trades has been a curse more than a blessing to me for the longest time. I have a lot of insecurities, and I always envied people who do well and great in what they’re passionate about. I was capable of doing a lot of things–-–but I don’t really excel in anything. I don’t even know what I really want.

I love making graphics and illustrations, but I also find an unusual sort of elation in writing research. I like talking. I like having debates in my head. I like teaching other people things I’m relatively knowledgeable in. I like to talk and read about philosophy. I like dissecting people, analyzing their weak points and figuring what destroys them. I like going to unfamiliar places, meeting new people, hearing new voices, and remembering new faces. I want to do a lot of things and I try to do all of them. I want to make the most of what I can do and what people say I cannot do. I want to get the most out of whatever life has to offer. Life was too short.

I guess you can say being enthusiastic about life was how I turned my insecurities around. I do a lot of things and fortunately I don’t have to be necessarily good at them. Unless I care about what other people say. Which I still kinda do—it’s hard to change that. So I try to be ‘good’ anyway.

I wrote this after imagining Sir [Espanto] asking me ‘bout what I really want to do with my life. And I anticipated that if I respond with uncertainty, I’ll get those cliched lessons about how difficult it’s going to be if I don’t know where I’m going. And I have to decide.

I know that. I’m perfectly aware of that. But people have different paces. I’ve been indecisive for goodness knows how long, and I can’t make a decision without putting every single thing into consideration. I’m obsessed with planning. I’m obsessed with calculating everything before making a decisive move. Is that a bad thing?

I really don’t know anymore. It’s like whenever I write I explore every kind of sadness flowing inside me. It’s as if I try to utilize every hint of anxiety and uneasiness within me to be able to write, because it’s what I like doing. To write is to throw your feelings out in the open; and that, for me, is freedom. I’m finding freedom in writing. And freedom in these terms was only attainable through writing.

And now, while it has always been a means to escape, writing it seems has made me more stuck than ever inside my head. It ends that what I was trying to escape from becomes the very thing I need to escape.

What am I even saying