Come undone

In the bathtubStaring blankly at the wall as warm water from the shower rained over my head.

I am a misfit. It’s not a label I conform to. It’s just the reality that exists for me.

How many times have I told the gods that I want life to end right here and now? How many times until they listen to my wish?

Life is becoming harder each day. It’s not suppose to become easier anyway. The case is that I become better. Firmer. Wiser.

Or I deteriorate.

I can masquerade my psychopathic tendencies as boundless intelligence and philosophical depth. It helped that I was an empath so I can manipulate people and their emotions.

But when everything is failing for me, I lose these capabilities.

I crumble at every criticism. I’m easily destroyed by thoughtless and baseless remarks. And I excavate my own limbo.

Here I am again, forced to face the darkness within. It kept whispering that now’s the perfect time to end it, because now’s the time I can no longer escape.

It amazes me how sensible and sound I seem despite the fact that I’m contemplating suicide now. Maybe it’s become easier for me to deal with the thought. The execution is what’s impeding the end.

I would wish to be saved but I know just how absurd and idiotic that is. You cannot be saved, the same way you cannot save people.

I’m pretending I don’t hear the voices anymore. I’m playing deaf. Regardless of that I’m falling back off the abyssal limbo I never thought I’d escape. And I’m beginning to think that maybe I never got out of it in the first place.

I think now’s a good time to die, my man up there. I already saw Mom and embraced her. That’s enough.

Enough. Enough of this life. I don’t want it anymore. Take me now. I don’t want to be here anymore. Get me out of here.

If dying is the only way out here, I would gladly kill myself.

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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

Grey in the rainbow

Indifference is a scary thing.

It fucks you up on the inside out, and without a clue, it starts taking everything away from you.

I was grateful about being indifferent to what others have to say about me. It was some kind of freedom, something I’ve always wished I could be. But I didn’t think it’s going to extend its effects to other things.

I’m becoming indifferent to my studies, my grades, and sometimes even to my friends. I am breathing and existing, but I’m not sure those words were synonymous to living. I go on with life with not much of anything getting done, and I stop halfway with realizations alone.

I don’t know. I’m an inch away from getting totally disinterested about everything. The results of the elections do not bother me at all. I don’t have strong emotions for or against anyone. I watch everyone get worked up about their lives, and I rest content with the normality of my breathing pattern, or the rate with which my heart beat.

I didn’t care about anything, but I guess I was believable enough to make everyone think I give a shit. I’m lifelessly walking a crowded road of colorful people, a colorful sea of humans laughing, grieving, and protesting. I was grey, and they were full of colors. Full of emotions. I watched them callously, wondered about the hollowness expanding within me, and walked away. That’s what I do. At least that’s what I’ve been doing the moment I realized I could simply walk away from all these. I was tired of humans. I was tired of getting angry. Of being happy. Of ricocheting between being happy and pretending to be. I was tired of my sadness, tired of distinguishing which is real and isn’t. I was tired of the crazy dynamic life had. I was tired, period.

I always thought I was brave, not fearless. There was a difference.

But now I’m beginning to think I am the latter. I couldn’t feel anything. Not sadness. Not happiness. Not fear. I don’t have the kind of will I thought I used to have, suppose that I did have it.

This stupid self-analysis is starting to exhaust me as well.

I’m tired.

I’m tired.

A feeling long forgotten, trapped in a memory

Note: The names are changed. (Still undone)

Last night, when Sarah and I were reflecting about our lives, a realization hit me.

It was 2am. We were talking about a lot of things. We were pondering on every stupid thing we did and were about to do, when we started discussing the consequences of confessions.

Yep, confessions.

She had planned to confess to Peter the following week. Her feelings have become toxic to her. She overthinks and overanalyzes everything nonstop, and it’s becoming destructive. She never tires of creating conclusions based on far-fetched assumptions and incomplete information, despite realizing it’s to her own detriment. She needed answers. And she bothers Beth and I a lot. Way, way, lot.

But the thing is, what we have were merely conjectures like her own. We don’t know Peter the way she does. And Peter alone has the answers she’s looking for. Does he feel the same? He probably has a clue, right? Why is he awkward? Why did he ignore me that day? He thinks I’m being stupid, right? Maybe he doesn’t even care? But why won’t he talk to me? God, you go add to the sequence. It’s the same stupid questions you’ve probably thought of or came across yourself. I’m guessing it’s driving her insane because her feelings felt too foreign, and it’s overwhelming her.

Beth and I advised her to confess already because that’s the only step she has to move forward. Her world has stopped. She couldn’t study, she couldn’t do anything because he fills up her mind. (Oh, how familiar. Overly at that) She would argue that it’s too early, that she’s not even sure about how she feels yet, and Peter might think she’s ridiculous. Trust me. There’s no talking her out of this. It’s gotten exhausting, actually. Calming and consoling her can get pretty tiring. We always had to rationalize things for her, as if everything always has to make sense. Every tiny detail about that night when she developed feelings for him, I got completely covered. We’ve basically dissected every word uttered and every movement made then. I can seriously write a novel about that one night, basically a shit ton of overanalysis of gestures and semantics, and details distorted due to heavy overthinking. I don’t even know why I carry this burden. Humans call this friendship.

Anyway, while on our beds, we were contemplating about the implications of whatever response he’d give her. The other day, she told me that Peter might accept her feelings thinking that she’d be a “waste”. She’s got a point—of course, under the assumption that Peter never got a confession before. After a couple more exchanges, I concluded that whether he returns her feelings or not, she’s damned either way. She’s still going to dissect whichever response he gives her. Although she could be right about the ‘waste’ part.

Because it’s how it is for most people, right?

When you find out someone out there sees you the same way you see someone you like, it makes us happy. It is elating and fulfilling. You’d think you were doing something right. You were doing something beautiful. It makes us even more happy when that person gathers up the courage to confess, because not everyone has the guts to do that.

But sometimes, how we respond to those feelings can render us selfish. We liked it. We liked the thought of someone being invested in us. We liked the thought of being important, of being the center of someone’s universe. Some of them even put us on a pedestal. And sometimes, though indirectly, or unintentionally, we end up giving them false hopes. We make them wait. We take advantage of their vulnerability.

They are left hanging, suspended on the unknown—just so we don’t lose them. We knew it was selfish. We knew. But we don’t want to lose them.

Or more accurately, we don’t want to lose the beauty, the importance, or the wonderful things they attribute to us. We don’t want to lose that feeling of being special. It’s understandable.

We circled around that topic when my confession to George crossed my mind. To be honest, I have moved on and forward — suffice it to say that since that day, I have become better. But I’m not happy for him. In fact, sometimes I want him to regret not choosing me. All that for my ego, though. It’s not because I still have emotional investments.

And then I realized that whenever I think of him, or talk about him, all I remember was everything he was after the bad things occurred. That night, it dawned me that after the confession, I barely remembered the reasons why I liked him. I barely remembered the good things about him, or the memorable things he did and we did together.

Like how, randomly, he would text me just to tell me that the moon that night is stunningly beautiful. He knew how much I loved the moon. He knew how much invested I was in the stars.

Or when he was dismissed in class and instead of going straight to the tambayan, he would sit with me on the bridge strangely carrying a washtub. He would pester me, and I’d be just happy talking to him.

Or when he’d withdraw and ask me to tag along, and then we’ll walk around the oval debating on the philosophy of confessing. Little things. We talked about life a lot. We talked about a lot of things. We talked about everything, and it felt like a lifetime would not be enough to talk about the things we could. You do not meet a lot of people who you could naturally and intellectually share your sentiments about the world with. Just like what Celine said in Before Sunset, when we’re young we think we’d connect with many people—later in life we’d realize it only happens a few times.

And we could ruin it, you know. Misconnect. 

I guess he was someone I really connected with. And misconnected.

 

I forgot.

I forgot how and what I actually felt for him after the confession.

Now, my feelings are raining on me.

Now, it dawned on me that I actually, immensely, profoundly, really liked him. For everything he was. For everything he had been.

But everything he did and everything he was after the confession blindsided me into thinking that he was simply a puzzle I preoccupied myself with because I was bored. That I did not like him—I was bored, I was just bored. And that I mistakenly—or subconsciously—chose to de-bore myself with a mere douche, a conceited jerk who’s completely naive of his own egotism and narcissism.

He was a douche.
But he was a douche along other things.

He was the person I liked, the person I admired, the person who made me happy. He was the person who once made every waking moment meaningful.

And the same was with everyone I decided to remove in my life. They were toxic along other things.

That night, I slept with tears wetting my pillow.
I slept wondering what it is that I have forgotten, what it is that memory has resurrected.

It was a feeling long forgotten, trapped in a memory buried deep in my insides, imprisoned, meant to be locked up for goodness knows how long.

Whatever it is, however, the fact remains that George is just a memory now, a small memory now relegated to the past. And it shall stay there.

Asunder

How do you put your dripping tears down into words?
How do you sing a melody without lyrics?

How do you type the bloody nothingness streaming out of your guts?

How?

How?

How do you describe a pain that’s undescribable? That is unspeakable? That leaves you gasping for air? That tears you asunder and leaves you crumbling back into an abyssal limbo?

I don’t know, but I just did that, didn’t I?

I don’t even know what I’m typing
What I’m writing
What I’m thinking

The only thing reverberating in my head now is that I want to escape my mind

My mind is crumbling

Help me

Help