Saturday, May 19, 2018

If released, will it go like fireworks - a brilliant splash in the sky, embers sizzling in descent before melting into the night?

Or will it be more like a block of iron, smashing into the concrete?

Or will it be just a breath of air. Immeasurable.

Thursday, May 17, 2018

In the past month a lot of people have commented that I have 'good pain tolerance'. After saying that, they feel free to dish out a little more.

But tolerance doesn't equate to minimal sensation, you know. My pain receptors are working just fine, and I'm good at crying silently, and oww...

When I know the pain is necessary - like molding my broken hand into a cast - then I know they just gotta do what they gotta do. I won't make it harder. Plus I know what it's like to be on the other end (like drawing blood): it's not easy doing stuff that hurts a patient, even knowing it's in their best interests.

So I endure. And I guess, my philosophy is that life is filled with suffering, and we can only endure.

But that's not quite true. There are things we can do to mitigate suffering. And call me an idiot, but I never, ever, ever considered that before.

Thursday, May 10, 2018

"But I have to..." 

"Why do you have to?"

I stare blankly. "I must! If not--"

"Why do you have to?"

This is where I feel a sensation of my heart crumbling and falling into the deep. I don't have to. I was not forced - am not being forced - I chose this.

It's a very terrible, also very freeing thought.


I wonder why love is so painful? Is it me, or is it my understanding of 'love'? Or is it that the world can be so terribly, heartrendingly ugly, and people who live in this world stand partially in its shadow?

Or is it just me, after all? Maybe not everyone flinches at the grime in the corners. Maybe things would be different if I was different.

What am I even saying?
I acknowledge your kindness, and at the same time I have witnessed your atrocities.

If this sounds convoluted, it is much easier than having to believe in either pure goodness or bad.

Everyone has good and bad sides. From my friends, I am willing to put up with a lot (although I never really have had to though?). But for non-friends, there is no need. Maybe because I am not wise enough, and my heart is too weak. I cannot endure endlessly. So I pick and choose.

Even though it hurts to do 'bad things'. I am not that kind. I am not kind enough, or strong enough, to keep from hurting others.

At the same time, I cannot control whether others feel hurt...or not. I cannot control people's feelings. Do I say this to absolve myself of guilt? Well, partially. But it's true, for one; for another, it applies to myself as well. I am struggling now, but I hope I will not be struggling with my conscience for long. I will learn and move on.

Monday, May 7, 2018

Tidying up my room and ...

So when I was speaking to the counsellor, at one point he cut in and asked me, "What is this? What is the emotion you're feeling right now?" And I was stunned.

So as I cleared up the black holes in my room, I encountered all the little notes that I've kept over the years. If I had to ask myself what exact emotion I feel when I read them - and not brush away that pang as a vague discomfort - then what I feel is regret. There were people I cared about, and who cared about me - who were aware of the things I did on my own, quietly. There were people who saw the good in me and were kind enough to let me know. I guess I regret very much that...what? That life pulls us apart? That I never made the effort to keep in touch? That, while I was there with them, I was too constrained by self-doubt and anxiety to make a deeper bond... that I wasn't courageous enough to put myself out there and try to get to know them better?

To be fair, I did try. But I was so scared of everything - of how people saw me, whether they liked me or not... well, shucks. If I just forgot about all that.

I wonder if fear is a choice, too?

If it is, then I will choose to be unafraid. Or is that the wrong word...should I say courage? I will choose to be more courageous.

Saturday, May 5, 2018

I said, "I write stories."

"What would make it easier for you to write this story?"

"I could use animals?"


Well. The silence stretches; I make small noises as I stare at the ceiling, the clock, the door.

The counsellor smiles. "Let's say you write it in your room?"


"What time of the day?"


"Alone or with company?"

"Alone. With the door locked."

"Alright, now how likely are you to do it?"

"Eighty-five percent?"

He probably guesses it's not going to get any higher, so he changes tack. "What would hold you back from writing it?"

And I'm not sure he even realises what context he's asking this question, maybe he's running on autopilot now, so even though I'm staring at him dumbly he still doesn't quite get it.

"It will be hard," I offer. Tears gather and I look down. "I don't have many close friends. He was one of them." I swallow hard. "I don't want to cry any more."


I saw a counsellor twice because everyone needed reassurance that I'll be fit to practice...everyone including me I guess.