Tag: guilt

god isn’t real and nothing really matters

I never believed that God, destiny, or whatever [insert higher power] existed. Because if everyone’s lives were already predetermined, nothing we do matters. And if something like that did exist, why is there still so much hurt and suffering in the world? 

I used to fall asleep with hate in my heart and blood on my wrists.  Did I deserve that when I was 14? 15? 16-17-1819202122? Maybe. I was the one hurting myself. But what about all the times others hurt me? Did I deserve all of that? Did I deserve to eat lunch alone in the middle school bathroom stall because I didn’t feel safe anywhere else? Did I deserve to have my safe place taken from me? When girls tried to climb the stalls to take pictures of me? Or crawled under the gaps between the stalls and floor? 

I thought I knew what being violated felt like. I got too familiar with feeling empty and broken. I was comfortable in my numbness, and I let the emptiness sit in my chest. It was easy to let boys girls bitches friends dad mom people take pieces of me because they were already broken.  

My rapist took a different piece of me the night he fucked me against my will. 

Did I deserve to be touched without my permission? To be choked and hit and beaten as if I was not 97 pounds and him, over 200? To have bruises in places that should not have been touched?

I did not know I could feel emptier than I already was. The only thing I truly felt was the hate I had for myself. I felt hate in my blood in every fucking heartbeat pumping hate running through my veins as if I weren’t already drowning with lungs full of liquid guilt, as if I needed more reasons to kill myself slit my wrists and bleed out all the hope hurt just to feel anything other than this. 

I learned that the world moves forward even if I don’t. Life goes on. Pain and suffering go on and on and on and on. 

It still hurts when I think about what he did to me because he was my friend because I trusted him because I didn’t deserve what happened or maybe I still blame myself for being weak stupid trusting naive stupid stupid stupid and these days I think about that night more and more frequently, not of my own volition though I am just so triggered because I am back in Bangkok again and it still hurts because he was my father and I loved him and I trusted him to protect me from people like my rapist and I didn’t expect I didn’t think how could I know at the age of 11 that he was the one I needed to be protected from? How could I know?

God can’t be real. Fate. Destiny. All of that cannot be real. So while the concept of a higher power comforts many and lets them believe that everything will be okay in the end, I choose not to cannot believe in it.

I cannot believe life is predetermined because I cannot accept that this – my life my soul my brokenness my loneliness and hurt and anger-pain-emptiness-numbness unworthiness hatred guilt – is how I am supposed to feel. Maybe for now, but not forever.

I’d rather be dead than feel this for the rest of my life.

I don’t want to hurt – like this – anymore. 

I don’t know how much more I can take.

I’m trying my best but it is getting harder and harder to breathe. I am trying to heal in the environment that hurt me. I don’t think it’s working I need help I’m so trapped get me out of here I can’t sleep I don’t feel safe here this isn’t home I don’t think I can do this anymore I’m fucking breaking I am hiding the truth in my art because I am scared of him still and if this is art then it’s all up to interpretation, isn’t it? I speak in metaphors and hide between the lines. If you can read between them you can’t because I can’t either I am just scared.

Maybe I should just pray about it.

liquid guilt

I’m supposed to be reading psychology articles for my discussion. I talk about that a lot. Not my social psychology class, but what I’m “supposed” to be doing. I say that so many times in my blog, in a day, in general.

When I say I’m “not supposed to” drop classes or not write or have too much fun, Joe always tells me that there is no “supposed to.” And he’s right. I guess it’s just normal (where I’m from, anyway), for kids to go to school, then college for four years, then grad school. But here I am, abroad. Living with my boyfriend, with seven animals in our house, barely passing my one class… and maybe graduating in four years. Or four and a half.

Most of my day, if I’m not consumed by anxiety, I feel a guilt that runs so deep inside me I feel like I want to throw up. I’m in the states because I’m in college. But I’m barely a college student at all. I’m struggling so much but I can’t return to Bangkok because I won’t be able to get the mental health resources that I need.

I’m not doing what I’m “supposed” to do. But am I really supposed to be doing? Studying? Taking care of my mental health? Getting good grades? Pleasing my boyfriend? Getting an internship? Going out with my friends? What am I supposed to do? I wish there were a set structure that I can follow. But all I have are splattered feelings everywhere – messy, inconvenient.

I have a guilt that runs so deep in my veins it has become a part of me. I’m not sure how to get rid of it. But you know what the most fucked up part is?

I’m not sure I really want to.

a conversation

him: take off your shirt

me: I, um, I don’t think–

him: c’mon baby, I know you want to feel good

me: I don’t know if I–

him: I’ll take it off for you

I have lost so much of myself in past relationships

so many countless hours of calls that I didn’t want to answer

endless murmurs of no’s that end up becoming maybes and then yeses

it wasn’t his fault that I didn’t want to do anything

wasn’t his fault that I was incapable of saying no

that I couldn’t say no

because I wanted it to be good

I wanted to be good

I still get flashbacks from times I would rather not remember

I still ask myself every day why I did those things

why I said those things when I wanted to cry

why I let him take off my shirt and unhook my bra

why I said it was okay, keep going, it’s fine, it doesn’t hurt

but it wasn’t okay, I wanted to stop, and it did hurt

did I really want to be loved that badly?

to have ruined all the parts with dignity left in me?

was I incapable of loving myself?

even now, I still struggle to say no when I don’t want to do something

and I’m slowly learning that saying no doesn’t make me weak

it doesn’t make me any less of a person

saying no makes me strong

because it means that I am choosing myself

I am choosing to love myself

simple truths

adulting meIt’s hard to tell the truth. But here’s my version. Within each statement is a simple truth, just how I feel. If you think that this is how I’m projecting my relapse – you couldn’t be more wrong. I would have never posted this a year ago, or hell, even a month ago. I don’t think I could’ve even gotten myself to write this. I know these aren’t great sunshiny feelings but they’re my feelings and I’m working on them. This isn’t a call for help. I’m proud of myself, and I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I can’t believe I’m including a picture of myself in this. I hate having my picture taken but I think it’s important for me to realize that I am a part of others’ memories and that they actually love me. Thank you for being a part of my journey, I wouldn’t be here without everyone’s love and support.

Here are my truths.

 

I am nineteen.

I have accomplished nothing.

 

I like writing.

But I am not good at it.

 

I have had my heart broken twice.

I’m scared to fall in love again.

 

I don’t like it when strangers look at me.

I think they’re mentally stripping me.

 

I’ve been taking sleeping pills every night for the past month.

Because when it gets too late at night, I want to hurt myself.

 

I miss my father a lot.

But I still remember the belt he used to strike me with.

 

I love reading.

I need to escape. I need to forget.

 

I paint my nails often.

Because if I look put together, no one can tell that I’m falling apart.

 

I like getting sick.

Because having the flu is a better excuse for me to stay in bed than depression.

 

I have recurring nightmares of drowning.

I’m scared of the disappointment I feel when I wake up.

 

I’m always sunshine and rainbows.

Because if I’m not, no one will like me.

 

I don’t like it when people tell me to shut up.

It’s taken me a while to find my voice. 

 

I intend to keep it.

 

 

 

 

a previous life

The bustling city of Bangkok was busier than I remembered. Amidst the tightly packed cars like sardines in a can, the distant grey heads rushed around, enshrouded by the airy fumes. Skyscrapers and company buildings littered the streets – a permanent shadow that followed me everywhere.

This used to be a place I once called home, but now, I am nameless. faceless. Lost in a sea of conformity. I am disgusted by the society. And I am disgusted by my self  and my inability to escape the relentless cycles of power, politicians, and prejudice.

The car rolled into the suburb, uniform houses stood next to each other— the ones with a small porch and a garage. We drove past the empty playground. The once green grass lay overgrown and deserted, the swings creaked softly at the departing wind. I noticed the peeling paint off of the merry-go-round as we drove past the barren land.

I remembered spinning round and round, peals of laughter in the air. Giggling with my sister as we rolled around on the grass. I can’t remember the last time we talked.

My head snapped back into the moment as she asked casually, “so how have you been?” — as if she knew me—as if she cared while I was away this whole time.

“I’m fine. And you?” I reply automatically.

If I’ve learned anything at all, it is that, people ask you questions, not because they care for the answer, but because they don’t have anything else to say. This isn’t true for everyone of course, but it will always be true for my mother.

An awkward pause. A horn blares from the opposite side of the road, filling the empty silence.

“Fine.”

I looked out the window, wishing I was anywhere else but there.

“So, Psychology, huh?” she looked proud, as if knowing what major I was in meant that she was involved in my life.

“Actually, I switched to Journalism six months ago.”

“Journalism? That’s great.” she chirped.

I could see her crinkle her nose in disdain through the side view mirror.

 

*

 

My old bedroom looked smaller than I remembered. A bed. A dresser. A desk. My eyes shifted from the small twin sized bed to the tired table. I pulled out the chair which groaned against the ashy hardwood floor. Old books and novels lined the shelves— a thousand lives I wish I’d lived.

I smiled fondly at memories of old detective novels and reminded myself of the light in my eyes that could never be put out. I was ferocious and determined to take on the world. I wonder what happened to that little girl.

The oblique golden rays shone on the stained cardboard boxes, the fine coating of dust marking the years it has been left behind. A gentle gust of wind drifted through the creaky window, as the thin white curtains danced against the soft light.

There was an element of something almost magical at the untouched pale-pink walls. Plastered with polaroids of family trips and middle school dances, I almost didn’t remember the thrill of being asked to the first dance. Almost.

I don’t feel anything anymore. There is no thrill. There are no emotions. One word text messages, leftover Chinese takeout, and quick fucks. This is the new norm. The scary thing, I think, is that I’m starting to get used to it.

Scratches on the pale walls made by the end of metallic rulers. Names of crushes, dates of first kisses. Tally marks of days spent alone and nights spent lonely.

I sigh.

It’s not that much different now. Except, I no longer feel whirlwinds of emotions. My heart never skips a beat. There are never butterflies in my stomach. The empty pit beneath my chest is still there though.

I am reminded of all the times spent in the corner of my bed- curled up and alone. All the times spent looking up at the artificial fluorescent glow, wondering when it would all get better.

It doesn’t.

I breathe in deeply.
Late night conversations on the phone and tears that ended up with scars not on the walls.

There are no more conversations. There are no more tears. All that’s left are fading scars and a numbness that never goes away. 

The fluffy white blanket gave the illusion of being comfortable and safe but its frayed hems said otherwise.

I wonder what parts of me I have left. 

Opposite of the bed stood my vanity. The polished structure that once stood strong now wilted. Staring defeatedly at me, as if asking me why I abandoned it. The mirror hung, lone and depressed. But wiped clean, without any fingerprints or marks or trace of life.

Stupid, stupid table. Of course I’m going to abandon you. Stupid piece of shit. Reminding me of my shit life. 

I stared back at myself.

— Who am I?

relapse

black and blue

still stains my skin

still stains my soul

from nights i don’t want to remember

nights i cannot seem to forget

why do i do this to myself?

 

my fault

always my fault

i wanted it to be good

i wanted to be good

 

i keep sinking

into this hole i keep digging

the hole inside my heart

somehow keeps expanding

 

you call it art

but it tears me apart

inside, always keeping it

inside

 

— i am falling apart

 

solid ground

Apr 5, 2018 – 10:34PM

Skinny Love – Birdy

I’ve been feeling out of sorts lately, like something is wrong but not quite enough for me to say I’m depressed, because I’m not, trust me. I’m not depressed. But something is a little off. And I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like an empty shell, moving about day to day without really paying attention to what’s going on. I feel almost guilty for feeling dissatisfied with my life.

There’s this sense of familiarity with everything I do – wake up, go to class, go to the gym (sometimes), Netflix, homework (sometimes), and sleep. Oh, and all the meals (and things with friends) in between that. This pretty much is my every day routine. It’s not a terrible one, right? I mean, I think it’s pretty well-rounded.

But one day, as I was standing in the shower watching the warm droplets glide down my arms and stomach, I was struck with this sensation. Like something was wrong. I still don’t know how to describe it. It was almost a reminder – a slap in the face, perhaps, mocking me for how hard I’m always trying. No matter how many extracurricular activities I surround myself with, I’m always filled with this almost-guilt – what if it isn’t enough?

I feel like it’s middle school again, it’s the first day of school, and I’m surrounded by a sea of strangers. I feel like it’s the first time I’m about to fly thousands of miles alone to a foreign country. I feel like it’s the first time I’m leaving home, but I’m not. I feel like it is the first time having sex and I’m scared and nervous. I feel sick to my stomach all the time. I’m watching the world go by in slow motion yet time is passing so quickly – there aren’t enough hours in a day. I feel stuck. Guilty? Lonely. Unmotivated. Confused. Uncomfortable. Unsettled. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost.

My only two rules in life are to be kind and to do things out of love. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of this feeling of almost-guilt, this vulnerability – I will never be able to erase how lost I feel. And I’m scared. That even now, at 18, everything seems to be so in place, yet I feel like the world will swallow me whole at any given moment.

I am looking for solid ground. I can’t find it. Will I be feeling this way when I’m 28? 40? Lost. I am so lost.