It feels like everyone is working towards something and I want to be passionately doing something with my life as well, instead of just drifting through the days. Somewhere along the way while growing up, I lost my drive for life and for writing. My shoulders became heavy – with bills to pay, people to take care of, things to finish, and my days became checklists of things to do, but none of what I’m doing is what I should be doing to get me closer to my goals. Scrolling through social media, laughing at variety shows, idling my time away when I could be working towards becoming a better writer…I’ve been using different excuses to not write. I needed to take care of my mom. I was too tired from my day job. I’ve been spending my time improving my physical health. All these were just front for my laziness. If I really wanted to, I could have burnt midnight oil to write. I could stayed in during weekends. I could have, I could have, I could have. But I didn’t. Because I was lazy – to write, to even think about what to write about – and also because I am constantly haunted by the fear that I will never be a good writer or ever find something worth write passionately about.
I used to love baby’s breath flowers because they were beautiful even in death, that even when they’ve dried up, they still looked the same. How nice was it, to possess something so seemingly eternal?
But I’m beginning to understand what a terrible illusion that is. The flowers have dried up. Dead and gone. They were not eternal; nothing is. To not be able to recognise when something has ended, to foolishly hold on to something that is seemingly beautiful but ephemeral was like trying to hold on to a passing breeze. All you end up with is a clenched fist and the inevitable sense of frustration.
I’m learning to let dead things go. Whatever that has ended, I will wrap it up neatly and put it away. There will be fresh flowers on the table again.
I’m high on pills right now and also on my period, and therefore my brain is at maximum (or minimum, depends on how you see it, really.) overdrive. My thoughts so far this AM:
- If something bites you and cause you pain, it should at least be radioactive so that you can at least get some superpowers out of it????
- Reasons to date me: I am soft and warm, like a giant pillow but better because I bring in my own salary.
- I need churros
Certain moments in life are definitive. They don’t have to be of any importance: trying and hating a new Starbucks drink, realising that you wore two different shoes out, a trip to the doctor’s that said you might be borderline overweight. None of these are big deals, but you remember them anyway because those little bits of nothings somehow changed you, even if it was in the smallest way. Now you shake your head when a friend offers you a grapefruit tea, now you look down twice at your feet before leaving the house, now you go for walks or get a salmon salad or plain water instead of Coke.
For me, that important-unimportant moment was a tweet. 140-characters on a platform whose icon was a small, chubby bird. It was silly, frivolous, self-absorbed, but it was what I – and many other millennials and younger generations – had become accustomed too. Emotional attachment and detachments played out on the internet like a mildly entertaining, low rated drama. A tweet was my cold shower, a wakeup call. It ended with a tweet but it really started with a message on Facebook. Slide into the DMs, they say. He sent me a video. It was nothing. We knew each other in school, long ago. We followed each other on social media for years, left comments and likes, even chatted sometimes. Yet, I never thought of him romantically. But that one evening, he sent me a video out of the blue and suddenly it was there, the possibility that it could be something romantic. A little seed of thought planted itself firmly in my mind.
Years of being mutuals* had kept me well informed of his life. Somehow, I knew his favourite bands, his taste in clothes, and the last city he visited. That was the power of social media, the ability to imprint information at the back of your head without you being actively aware of it. A few days later, I replied to his Insta-story. We chatted. The seed took root and started to grow. He replied to some of my posts. I replied to some of his. We’d talked privately, always on social media. That was when I started looking at my phone constantly. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. Where was he? Who was he with? Did he view my IG-stories? Did he like my posts? I was happy when he commented. I was sad when he didn’t.
But before long, it became more about myself than of him. I became preoccupied with the presentation of my image on social media. I wanted him to see me. I was consumed by how he would view me – all through a tweet, a picture, a video – even though I was more than that. I had a whole world outside of social media, but I was constantly trying to condense my life into a 15-seconds video on Instagram, or a funny tweet, or a clever Facebook comment.
I told myself it was a crush, but that one-sided crush manifested itself obsessively, dangerously. It became an obsession, not just of him but of how I perceived myself. I was constantly trying – to be smarter, cooler, funnier, skinner. Thinking and rethinking my best angles, checking different platforms incessantly, seeking approval from someone who had no idea that I had begun to pin my self-worth on whether or not he liked my posts. I searched for the slightest hints of affections on my mobile screen, opening and closing apps, over-reading into 140-character posts and photo captions and GIFs, posting something and anxiously hoping he would reply… and feeling crushed (no pun intended) when he didn’t. Even when I was out with my friends, I would be checking my phone constantly. Did he see it? Why didn’t he comment?
It got exhausting. I couldn’t sleep. My fingers itched to refresh and re-refresh and re-re-refresh a page. I began to blame myself. Why did I post that? Why did I send that message? He left me on read, perhaps it was because I was too boring or obsessive or stalkerish. My mind was constantly overran with thoughts of my own shortcomings. I was too short, too fat, not rich enough, too brown, not brown enough. I didn’t have cool friends, or an aesthetically pleasing social media account. I looked at all the girls whose photos he liked on Instagram. I didn’t look like any of them. That was when I decided I wasn’t enough. I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was exactly that I didn’t have enough of; all I knew was that I wasn’t enough, I wasn’t enough, I wasn’t enough.
I started working out. Eating less. Skipping dinner and forgoing carbohydrates. My jogs lasted thirty minutes, and then forty-five, and then one hour. I did forty crunches and then eighty and then two hundred. I lost weight. I posted pictures and videos. I sent out tweets and Facebook updates, but there was no reply. My self-esteem worsened. It was no longer about him; it became all about me. I had to be prettier, skinner, sexier. What started out as a simple interest in someone had evolved into an ugly beast, an evil soul crushing mirror where I projected my worst insecurities and used an innocent person to justify why I shouldn’t be happy with myself.
At my lowest point, the beast reared its head and roared callous thoughts into my mind. I was tormented by my own posts on social media. I am cooler now. I’m funnier, skinnier, better now. Can you like me, please? But there was no reply. I wanted him to like me. I needed him to like me, so I can like myself.
Then came the tweet. The eyeopening, important-unimportant tweet. It was nothing explicit but it had a pretty clear message: he was seeing someone. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was heartbroken. I thought, this is what a heartbreak feels like. I tried imagine what this illusive, mysterious girl looks like. A tiny waist and slim legs. Straight teeth and soft hair. A ton of followers of Instagram, a great beauty with men like him rushing to do things for her. A Becky with the good hair. I drove myself insane with my imagination. I hated her, this imaginary person who had everything I wanted but couldn’t have. What does she look like? I tried to find her. I scrolled and scrolled, refreshed pages, snooped around. I tried to imagine how my feed would look to her. My self-worth was tied to a bevy of apps. Who I am as a person meant nothing at all if I wasn’t seen on social media.
And then I saw her picture. She looked just like any other girl. She wasn’t particularly pretty or attractive. She didn’t have a tiny waist or runway legs. Just a nice girl, doing her things, oblivious to the animosity someone she’s never met had for her. At first I laughed. I laughed because I thought I was better than her. Funnier, cooler, smarter. He would have been better with me. I laughed, but it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like I won, because I didn’t. I had destroyed myself trying to get someone to like me, not even in person but online. I went headfirst into a social media war with myself, and lost.
I liked this guy, I do. I genuinely enjoyed talking to him, even when we met in person, and wished that things could have been different, that he noticed how I was changing for him and asked me out. But in a way, I was also glad he didn’t. How this obsession manifested itself as a crush made me realise certain things. I was searching for love, but not in the right places nor in the right person. I was searching for love, because I did not love myself enough. I wanted him to pay attention to me, because I was not paying enough attention to myself. It took a long time for me to realise that.
Even as I write this, I am realising new things about myself, about how I manage my own image on social media to fit other people’s expectations, about how I am so often viewing the world through the hazy lenses of Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-social media. I love these platforms, love how I can talk to people I haven’t met in ten years, love how they give a stage to artists and creators. But I am also aware of how addictive they can become, how they can trick you into thinking you don’t exist unless you’re on social media. It is a double-edged knife, and I am still figuring out how to wield it without hurting myself. But for now, I’m going to lay off stalking people and focus on just liking memes.
*mutuals: people who follow each other on social media and post similar things
I think of the needles sometimes. The men, the opium pipes, stealthy fingers passing white packets by the front door. Syringes in the backyard. Dropping a can of beer. Tomatoes vines by the fences. A den. A doctor’s house visit. Stitches. A dog barking. The mumble jumble of drugs and playground tag, a block of brick against the head. Yelling.
Things you see in life changes you, inevitably, irrevocably. They shape your thoughts and your perceptions of life, how you look the world and its inhabitants. And if my thoughts were to take a single shape, it might just be of the tip of a needle breaking through brown skin.
Mel recommended Crazy Ex-girlfriend on Netflix to me and I’ve been addicted to it because
A) it’s so stupid
B) it’s highly relatable.
Somehow, those two variables are closely interlinked in my life.
It’s about this lady who met her ex-boyfriend from 10 years ago on the streets of New York and became so obsessed with him that she left her high-flying career and moved to California just to be closer to him. But of course, he doesn’t know that; he thinks she’s done it because she wanted to have a change of job. And so she goes around stalking him on social media (63 times a day, to be exactly. No really, she does that.) and then pretends to ‘bump’ into him at wherever he seems to be. She’s completely psy.cho.tic. Like, an actual ward-able nutjob. And it’s hilarious because she gets into all kinds of trouble and meets really funny weirdos and they all break into songs at random moments. Totally relatable, because that seems to be where I’m headed.
See, there’s this guy that I kiiiiiiind of think is cute and cool but he has zero interest in me. We’d talk once in a while and like each other’s post on social media but that’s about it. I’ve dropped some hints about getting dinner but he’s clearly not interested in me like that so I’ve resorted just stalking him on social media and refreshing his Facebook page 84 times a day. (Just kidding, we’re millennials, we don’t use Facebook much. Also, that number is an estimate.) But that’s about it. I’m not going to move across the country just to be near him because a) he lives in a really expensive estate and my ass is broke and b) this country is so small that even if I moved, I’ll just be like…three minutes closer to him.
I kindasortareallywanna just get this feeling out of my system because I hate the feeling of having a crush. I mean, come on. Does anyone on this planet actually like having their emotional stability depend on whether a guy has viewed their Instagram stories or not? I’ve tried all kinds of things – reading, painting, writing. I’ve even tried Tinder and but it just makes me want to stab my eyes out. I even considered becoming asexual, like a blackworm or a single-cell organism. Right now, my latest method is to go cold turkey on social media. Like The Purge but instead of killing people, you just deactivate your social media accounts. Does anyone have good remedies for getting over crushes? Please send them my way, your help is much appreciated, thank you.
I started a new twitter account today. It’s called @/sosadchicken and it’s basically just a place where I can tweet dumb thoughts that cross my mind (which happens more often than not) without bothering my friends on my main account.
Sometimes I look at the knife on the table, the scissors in the drawer, the cars on the street, the ledge of a high rise building, and a dangerous thought will cross my mind.
When people ask me how I’m doing, I’ll always tell them, I’m holding on.
“How are you living each day?”
“By holding on.”
New year, new me!
Haha, who am I kidding. I’m still the same person as I was in 2017, just with more baggage from 26 years of unresolved issues (instead of just 25).
Happy 2018, everyone! I hope we all become the person that dogs think we are this year.
Yesterday morning, I overheard my parents arguing about a Facebook and felt like crying. It was nothing new. In dealing with cancer, I am learning that my life is a 24-hr theme park with Being-On-Edge-of-Tears as the most popular ride. The causes for that emotional state differs. Sometimes it was because your mother was dying. Sometimes it was because we are all dying but we are more aware of some deaths than others. Sometimes it was because your mother has asked you to start packing up her things to be given away when she dies, that she was so resilient and brave in the face of eternal annihilation while you’re a soggy mess, crying over cups of teas and diced carrots. Most of the time though, in general, it was because you hate everything and life suck.
Yesterday’s episode was because I was happy. And sad. And upset. Simultaneously. Since beginning her medication, my mother barely had the strength to eat. She’d get violent coughs every time she speaks. Most of her days were spent on the couch in our living room, dozing off the effects of two different chemo drugs waging wars in her body.
But yesterday was different.
Yesterday, she had a Good Day. She woke up and ate almost half a bowl of rice without throwing up. She picked up her phone and looked through Facebook posts. She commented on things. And she had the strength to banter with my father. It has been so long since I’ve heard her speak that loudly that I panicked. Was she sick? Was this a new episode? But no, it was just a good day. We were having a rare good day, and all I wanted to do was to cry, because I was happy that she was well, because I was sad that it would end in a few hours, because I was beginning to realise the importance of a moment, a minute, an hour, because everything was moving too fast in the wrong direction, like a rollercoaster going unhinged, but that morning we were somehow given a moment of reprieve from the shadows that have been clouding our lives.
That morning reminded me of the pre-cancer days. Every single of one of those days must have been a good day, because we had strength in our arms and legs and lungs, because we could walk to the kitchen without getting tired, but we hadn’t appreciated it then.