Depths of Despair

Sep 11th, 2009 2:41:00am

You know what I find truly interesting about us humans? Our ability to feel so awful about ourselves at any given moment. Everyone has felt it at one point or another: that sinking sensation that is not in your stomach, nor your heart, but in every part of you. There is that immensely heavy feeling in the core of your being that weighs you down; you feel lifeless, defeated, destroyed.

This could be triggered by a small mistake, or a whopping failure, a simple comment someone made to you or to someone else about you, or blatant abuse. Whatever the cause, there is no denying that there are times when we feel lower than low, with no hopes of ever coming back up. When cynicism and apathy rule supreme and any bit of optimism you have is shot down by the aforementioned cynicism and apathy.

Some people call it being “down in the dumps”, while others more crudely refer to it as “feeling like shit”. Therapists, psychologists and the like may term it “depression” or perhaps the milder but no less impacting “low self-esteem”. It goes by many names, but that feeling remains the same everywhere, for everyone.

What really gets to me, though, is how… silent the emotion is. Think about it. Anger is all chaos. It’s a torrent of roarings and screechings, hissings and spittings, clawing and tearing that takes over your insides. Sadness is this huge gaping pit; a black hole that sucks away any joy with the a sound reminiscent of the last swirls of water going down the drain in the sink. Happiness is buoyant, bright and bouncing; laughter and music, Jealousy similar to Anger, but on a different level.

Losing faith in ourselves, however, is a quiet thing. It’s like an early winter morning of thick fog and mist, and a slight chill that makes you wish you were in bed under the blankets. It’s feeling worthless, useless, a waste of air and space. It’s not bothering to do anything because you feel there’s no point – you’ll just screw it up anyways, right? It is not the sudden going off of a light bulb, but the flickering and subsequent fading out of a candle. It is all those things, yet it doesn’t make a sound. Not one peep. As swift and as agile as an alley cat, with the silence of a ninja making his way through the night, it just comes over you.

And then you sink further, deeper, until you choose get yourself out. No one else can do it for you. They may throw you the rope, but only you can pull yourself through it. It’s all a matter of rousing up enough determination, enough hope, and not letting them get attacked, until you are not thinking of yourself as anything less than you truly are. I freely confess I am being completely and utterly hypocritical here, by giving out advice that I myself refuse to take. However, that doesn’t make what I’m saying any less important, any less true, nor any less necessary for you to read and remember.

Masking the Truth

Sep 8th, 2009 3:43:00pm

It has recently occurred to me that I have been described as “cold” rather frequently this past year. I am sincerely hoping, as I had not the heart to ask, that they meant it in the context of me being very calm on the surface, and not referring to the less flattering description of being unemotional and robotic. I find it amusing they call me that at all, for in truth I “freak out” quite easily.

This brings to light how often we hide our true selves, our real emotions and reactions to the things around us. Why? Why do we wrap the cloak of a whole other personality over the one we have now? Smiling when all we want is to cry, keeping a stoic face when all we want is to punch something, laughing when inside you just want to curl up and die… Everyone has their own personal reasons, but did I not say in a previous column that everything we do has no true reason at all? One could say they put on a mask because they are afraid of others seeing them for who they are. What if who they are is more amazing than what they pretend to be? The argument would be, “What if they’re not and are just hiding a horrible, evil self?” Well, we won’t be able to figure that out until the disguise has fallen apart. We won’t be able to help the person, if help is possible, unless we see what needs that help.

The desire to keep things bottled up is present in many, many people. Sadly, probably more than there are people who are not afraid to be themselves. We feel other’s emotions are more important than our own; our emotions are invalid, unjustified, and stupid. We quell them, keep them at bay, suppress them and push them down into the farthest recesses of our hearts. First, it’s hard, having to hide what makes you you. However, as time passes, it gets easier, until it has become second nature. At this point even if you wanted to you wouldn’t be able to bring those emotions to surface, so deep have you buried them. It starts to build, after a while. All you have kept inside for so long, never letting go, begins to demand release, pounding harder against the container you imprisoned them in, and you have to explode, let it out somehow. Sort of reminiscent of a volcano, no?

Sometimes even our talents can never be displayed, because we are afraid of being teased for them. Also because we are scared they are not as significant as we thought they were, that they’re not special, and that if we show them to someone else those suspicions and doubts may be confirmed. We might even be ashamed of them, as they may not coincide with the expectations and desires of others.

It all boils down to fear, doesn’t it? Fear of being ourselves, because of fear of ridicule and mockery; fear of us not being good enough; fear we’ll never be good enough; fear of not being as “perfect” as we think people want us to be. So we build walls, we wear masks and hide behind them. We act. And what a draining performance it is.

Maybe one day, no one will ever feel the need to act anymore. Maybe one day we can all unashamedly, unabashedly and completely be ourselves, without dwelling a single thought on what people might think or do or say. Maybe one day, we won’t put on a whole new face for the world, but display our own with pride. One day, we might be able to remove our veils completely, instead of just bit by bit, or not at all. Maybe one day we won’t be so afraid.

Perfectionism: The Downfall of Many

Sep 6th, 2009 4:56:00pm

Perfectionism -noun: a personal standard, attitude, or philosophy that demands perfection and rejects anything less.

That definition is open for discussion, in my opinion. For one thing, everyone’s idea of “perfection” is different; it depends upon a person’s taste and sense of what is right and what isn’t. For another, even then, “perfection” is an impossible goal. There is no such thing. It is a word that should not exist in any language, because all it does is drive us towards, and sometimes over, the edge. Anything, and I do mean anything,can be improved upon. No matter how many times I revise this column, for example, there will always be a better way to write it. If it is not found by me, it will be by someone else.

As we progress in life, people are going to discover new ways to make things better. To improve. Everything has room for improvement, after all. Nothing is truly perfect, for as I said, there is no such thing. It isn’t about being perfect, supreme or superior, it is about whether that object or person is perfect to you. Flaws will always be there. The question is, are you willing to accept them, let them go, and focus more on the good points instead?

We have been forced to believe that perfection is attainable. That if you buy this, or do that, or just change this bit here and that bit there, you can reach that incredibly high standard of “perfect”. I do not only mean your body image, I mean everything. Everyone wants themselves and their work to be perfect. There is nothing wrong with that, because it means you will work hard to better yourself, which is always a good thing. No, my point here is you have to know when enough is enough. “…rejects anything less” says the definition up there. You can’t do that. You shouldn’t do that. Otherwise, you’re going to be rejecting pretty much all that comes your way, all that you do will never be good enough, all that anyone does will never be good enough.

When you strive hard to make each little thing perfect, you’re missing out. You will never be truly satisfied with anything. You’re just stressing yourself out, and in your pursuit of that ever-elusive “perfection”, you’re losing sight of what you really should be doing: just performing the best you can and leaving it at that. I admit, even I have fallen victim to the quest. All I have met with is frustration, anger, and then apathy until all I want is to get it done, no longer caring how good I’d wanted it be, nor how bad it may become. Realise now, people, that struggling for something that doesn’t exist is a waste of your time and energy. Get off that treadmill, because no matter how much you run, you won’t be going anywhere.

In the end, I reiterate what I previously said, “It isn’t about being perfect, supreme, or superior, it is about whether that object or person is perfect to you.” You should have standards, yes, but accept the fact that flaws are a part of everything that comes along. They’re always going to be there. Be the best you can be, do the best you can do, and that’s perfect enough.

Curious, very curious

Sep 6th, 2009 12:05:00am

Now that I have returned, after such a long absence, to this blog,* I itch to write. It is surprising I have not started twitching yet, I desire to so badly. Makes me wonder whether this is how true passion feels like. Passion for an occupation, I mean. Does it take you over, that urge? Control you, overwhelm your senses until it is all you can think about, all you want to think about until it is done?

That is how I feel now. Inspiration is flowing through my veins, and, to quote that rather cliche idiom, “I’m on fire”. It’s curious that this happens now, after only recently considering Media as a major. It’s also curious that I now see ads for the course almost everywhere I go. It’s curious that right now, at this moment, I can think of nothing else I’d rather learn to become than a writer of some sort.

It is curious that, even though I know it is no more than a dream, I can see myself so clearly behind a laptop, writing for some magazine or newspaper. I wonder at the ability of us humans to dream, to visualise so clearly. As far-fetched and unrealistic as those dreams can be, it does not stop us from having them anyway. People could say that we have our heads in the clouds, and that we should come back down to earth. Well that may be so, in my case at least, but those who pay the nay-sayers no heed; those who stay up among those clouds and build their castle in the sky; they prove them wrong everyday.

It is curious how, when we believe in something strong enough, we can achieve those dreams, despite the circumstances. It is curious how determined us humans are, when it is our dreams are on the line.

It is curious how some people give up on their dreams, believing the ones who say it can’t be done. Sometimes, it is even themselves who say it can’t be done. I, admittedly, am of the latter group. It does not stop me from admiring people who have pursued their ambitions honorably, and who have succeeded, and that’s curious too, for should I not be envying them, instead of applauding them?
However, most curious of all, is that those who say you can’t do it? The people who claim it’s stupid and wrong to go after what you want? They only say it because they didn’t get what they wanted. They didn’t make it; they gave up, and they are all the more bitter because of it.

*”This blog” being the blog this was originally posted to all those years ago.

Without Rhyme or Reason

Sep 5th, 2009 10:44:00pm

A good friend of mine once asked, “Why do we do the things we do?” My answer to her was that our emotions, our experiences and their effect on us, our reason and logic, that’s what governed our actions. However, it occurred to me that this was not as valid an answer as I thought at the time.

Thinking about it, I realised that it goes far deeper than that, to a place where our minds cannot comprehend. Because when you break it down, you still have the questions, Why do we feel the way we feel? Why does our experiences affect us to the extent that we base our actions on them? Why do we think in the way we do, and reason things in the way we do? Basically, the question here is “Why?”
Do any of us really, truly have that answer? It’s different for everyone, after all. Perhaps why we do what we do has no reason whatsoever. Or perhaps the reason, though seeming a good one at the time, is not really valid as you thought during that moment. Be honest. How many of you have looked back at a situation and asked yourself, “WHY did I do that!? What cause could there possibly have been to make me act like that!? If only I’d thought clearer, and done this instead.”

With every action you regret, there is a reason you performed them in the first place. It gets blurry to your future self, fades away, and all that is left is that feeling of remorse. Sometimes, even with things you don’t regret, it still fades away. So perhaps, in essence, we have no reason at all for what we do. If we did, would it not remain in our memory? Instead, what remains after time has passed is the action itself, its consequences and repercussions, and almost never the cause.

Perhaps we are governed by something beyond ourselves. Perhaps our free will is only an illusion, and we are slaves to our emotions, even if we don’t know why we feel the way we feel. Perhaps, in truth, the reasons don’t even matter, only your actions. If you’ve done something bad, it stays that way. No one really considers why you did it, only the fact that you did it. If you’ve done something good, it’s just the same.

“Without rhyme or reason.” That describes everything we’ve ever done or ever will do. Because everything is without rhyme or reason. Your justifications and arguments don’t matter. No one is going to remember them, not even you. The only thing they’ll remember, the only thing you’ll remember, is your actions.

And if I do say so myself, that is a very scary thought.

On Hard Work

28 July, 2016, 10:25 PM

Sometimes I’m terrified that I’m more in love with the idea of hard work than hard work itself.

I like making plans and planning routines. I like the fresh beginnings and I like the idea of having reached the end.

The middle, though… That’s the part I’m not too keen on.

Sure, there are some things that I have to do whether I’m keen on them or not. I have to write that paper for class, I have to study for that exam, I have to write that article for that magazine or blog or newspaper. But when I sit down and do those things I’m forced to confront the question of whether, if the grade, or disappointment of my boss or teacher, were taken away, I would still do it. Would I be able to sit my ass down and do it for me rather than for some extrinsic reward or fear of punishment?

I like to think that I would, if I loved it enough or was excited about it enough.

But truth is, I’m genuinely not sure. And I live with that fear every day of my life.

Holidays are the hardest. When I feel myself paralyzed by all the things I’d “planned” to do, laying around in bed or on the couch letting the hours fly past in uselessness. A blob of nothingness. Even an hour of productivity ends up feeling rewarding, but contrasted with how many hours I’ve wasted away, that so-called “accomplishment” is just a pile of crap.

I need to learn to fall in love with the process. I need to be more disciplined, have more willpower, create good, productive habits and stop sustaining and falling into the bad ones. I need to stop saying “tomorrow” or “next week” or “when I move out” or “once I start university” or any of those things.

Get organized. Get better. Do better. Keep trying. Try Harder.

I am better than this. I can be better than this, I know it. But working towards it… That middle between who I am now and who I want to be… That’s the part I’m not to keen on.

But it’s there, yawning out before me like an endless uphill trek to a peak I can’t even see. And I’m hoping that somewhere in the middle of all this middle, I’ll learn to fall in love with each step onward and upward.

The Escape

I slip back into reality with no memory of who I am, nor what has transpired before this. I’m not alone, either; two armed guards are walking beside me. It seems I’ve been a willing prisoner (am I prisoner? For some reason, I feel like one…), because I am not restrained. However, they do seem ready to pounce if I make any sudden moves, so apparently I am an escape risk. Wait… Escape from where? What is this place? It’s outside… but not outside… Oh, we’re walking along the perimeter of a building. High wall to my left, government-looking facility to my right… Why are they always these sleek, chrome, grey-white buildings? Governments never have any imagination… Strange thought. Was that me? Must be, these guards certainly aren’t saying anything.

There’s someone up ahead. She’s standing by a door. Is that where I’m being taken? Must be. Something is bubbling up inside me, with more and more urgency. Panic. Why am I panicking? Is something bad about to happen? No coherent thoughts in my head anymore all I can think of is escape. I must escape. How? The guards are speaking to the woman now. She looks young. My age, maybe. …How old am I? I don’t feel like I’ve been alive very long. She says something about vents. Vent… I get flashing images of being huddled up in one, wrapped in a blanket… It’s comforting. Did I used to live in a vent somewhere? That’s strange. I must have been homeless. NO! Focus! Escape! I have to get out, fast! The guards are leaving me with her. I’ll get my chance soon. They need to go away first. But I can’t let her take me too far into this place or I’ll get lost. All these bright lights and identical hallways. Oh, there’s a vent here. That’s funny. Maybe she was just saying there was something wrong with it… Why can’t I think properly? What’s wrong with me? We’re approaching a door. It is the only door that is different and the panic has reached fever pitch. I need to get away. I need to get away NOW. RUN.

I do. I turn around and make a break for it, taking the same path we came from. The woman is yelling for me to come back, yelling for someone to stop me, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone else here. Yet. They’re going to come for me. The thought makes me run faster. I get to the vent and yank it open, intending to hide or find a way out. It’s blocked. I whimper in fear and frustration. Of course, that must have been what she was saying. I’ve done this before. They know. They don’t intend to let it happen again.

I keep running and get outside, a giant wall glaring right at me. Another to the right, meeting it at a corner. The sliding doors are behind me, with that woman getting closer. She is armed with back-up, now… I can sense it like the hot breath of a predator on my neck. In my peripheral vision, I see the guards who had escorted me here coming in fast from the left. It’s a long yard and they had left me eagerly, so they are still far off. I have time to make a decision. Get over that wall. Without pausing to think about it I rush forward, slapping my foot against the right hand surface of the corner and thrusting myself up, twisting my body to grab at the other ledge. Using both my legs and my arms I pull myself up and over, hearing the dismayed yells of my pursuers as I make the jump down. I have no idea how I did what I just did but there’s no time for me to think. They’ll be out soon, and they’ll be armed. I run.

It strikes me as odd how fast I seem to be, and if it weren’t for the fact I was being chased, I’d probably enjoy it more. I like this. Feet pushing the ground back and away, air rippling at my clothes. Then I see them in the distance, standing in their oncoming jeeps with guns drawn, trying to close in on me, and I forget everything except needing to get away. There are houses and buildings here. Quick as a rabbit, I flit to the right, leaping over a fence and finding myself in a small complex. I suddenly realise how winded I am and begin to pant, bending over to rest for a few moments.

“You seem like you’re in trouble.”

I snap back up so fast I hear my spine crack, searching for the source of the voice. One of the little house doors is open wide, a man sitting on the floor with some food, his side facing me. He must have been eating, or about to. My stomach growls a little. He hears, and chuckles softly. Long, slim hands attached to bony wrists toss two small scones across from him. I feel strangely safe for now, so I walk inside cautiously, shutting the door, and sit down. He smiles. He has a kind face. Weather-beaten skin and a thin, wiry body. But he doesn’t seem to be very old. I remember that I still don’t know how old I am. I don’t even know my own name.

“Eat,” he says, tearing a piece off one of his scones and taking a bite.

Hungry as I am, it strikes me that this is a very small house in an old complex. Even the rug we were sitting on felt thin and worn out. He may be sharing the only food he has for the night. “What about you? Is that enough?” I marvel at the sound of my own voice. It’s quiet, raspy from lack of water. Not too high-pitched, not as deep as a man’s. I realize I do not know how I look. The need to see my face is rising.

The man watches me. He can tell I’m struggling with something, but says nothing of it. “I always buy extra. Don’t worry. Please eat.”

I gratefully reach for one of the scones when the door bursts open. In an instant, I am across the hall and in the kitchen, hiding behind the fridge. I hear a yell, then a thud. My heart races. I’m terrified and guilty. No. No, no, no please let nothing have happened to the man. Please let him not be dead. Grabbing a knife from the counter I glance out towards the room. Only one of those men, coming this way. As soon as he walks through the door I growl as my arm swings out and I stab him as hard as I can. Not waiting for anything, I get the hell out of there. There’s no time to check on the kind stranger. I can only wish he’s okay, and make sure to stay away from people. Their kindness could get them hurt. Those who were kind, anyway.

I run without a single break in stride, slowing only marginally as tiredness makes me lose momentum, then speeding up again a second later. There’s no one out but me and the men coming after me, though I have yet to see them. I know they’re out there. I change directions. Climb over walls. Vault over any obstacles in my way. Hide, and then break into a run again. I don’t care where I go, so long as it’s far, far away. I still have no idea why I ran. All I could say for sure was that I knew that once I walked through that door, there was no going back. I am a liability. Whatever they wanted from me, they did not get. And we all know what happens to liabilities. I nod my agreement and pick up speed.

But the night drags on, and soon I am too tired to continue. It strikes me as odd that it has taken me this long to tire out. Adrenaline, probably. Find a place to spend the night. Yes, I need to sleep. I see a large villa close by. It’s big enough that I think I can risk hiding somewhere on the grounds. I can leave in the morning before I am discovered.

Exhausted, I climb the gate slowly, trying to keep my movements controlled for as little sound as possible. At this point, the temptation to just let myself crash to the ground and sleep where I land is almost overpowering. Only the thought of what would happen if I did keeps me from it. Luckily for me, the only lights on are those in a few rooms on the higher floors, so I can sneak about easily, crouching low and close to the walls of the house.

Then I stumble across the children. They spot me right in the middle of their play, and curiously make their way over. Probably heard my labored breathing and turned to look. Crap, what the hell are they doing up so late? Why aren’t they afraid of me, a stranger who’s broken into their house in the middle of the night? I don’t even care anymore. The exhaustion is taking over. Just as they reach me, saying things I can’t quite hear, I slump to the ground and it all goes dark.

Robbery at Point Lame*

Child abduction. Really? Of all the crimes in all their varying degrees of intensity that the Mob could accuse me of, they chose child abduction. You had to hand it to them- that’s the quickest way to discredit anybody. Even murderers and most serial killers can’t stand child abductors. Sick, twisted beings.

I’m not, by the way. A kidnapper of children. Sick and twisted, on the other hand… let’s say the jury’s out on that one.

I don’t even want to be here, in this dreary little suburb where the most exciting thing that happens is someone letting their grass grow over the height limit. Scandalous. Well, it was scandalous until I showed up and the Mob accused me of being one of the lowest of the low. Ironic, considering what they are. They didn’t even need proof. In this world, with all its evils, an accusation is enough. No one would take the chance of assuming the talk is wrong, whether they had kids or not.

Anyway, like I was saying. I don’t WANT to be here. I just have to because the Mob is here. And where the Mob goes, I go. There must be more to this town than meets the eye if they would go through the trouble of setting up shop and then making sure no one would come near me. Except the kids. Kids don’t believe adults half the time. They go with their gut. But cuz they’re kids no one ever takes them seriously and given the nature of the sign floating on my head, no one would ever let them get close enough. The Mob have made sure that not only am I viewed with utter suspicion, but that I have no allies. I’m surprised the cops haven’t shown up with a surprise warrant because a kid is a minute over curfew.

They’re not the real Mob, by the way. Not the Mafia, I mean. They just picked the name for the confusion and fear it would strike in the hearts of men, when it was mentioned. And it’s not like the real Mafia would be too eager to claim copyright infringement, so the name stayed. Pretty clever, these guys. Just never clever enough. And I’ve been keeping a very close watch on them in my time here (while the rest of the town keeps a disgustingly close watch on me. I can’t even go to a park).

Riggs, the unassuming rookie, has been working as a school bus driver. Honestly, he’s the best man for the job. He looks like the kid you’d bring home to your parents, if you were the type. Baby-faced bastard. All blue eyes and blond hair, like he was carved by angels. How he turned so rotten as to work for the Mob is anyone’s guess, but what do I care? He did and he does, and that’s enough. Anyhow, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that whatever the Mob is up to, it has to do with that school and the bus Riggs drives. And they obviously want me nowhere near either, hence the child abductor rumour they threw into the air the minute I walked into town.

Or rather, flew. Well, not that either. Something in between, I suppose you could say. Brilliant for getting around, it really is. Saves on gas and plane tickets like you wouldn’t believe.

So now I’m in this tiny suburban town basically next door to all the wilderness, tracking a nationally notorious gang, with the entire population against me and no intel on what the heck these jerks are up to.

I love my job.

*I don’t remember why on earth I titled it this. Or even where the idea for this came from. A dream, probably.

Ira

Robert Frost wrote,
“Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.”
Anger is both.
It is all-consuming
And my mouth tastes sulfur
And my throat feels charred
Witches would cower at my insides if they saw
(And Hades would feel at home)
Then,
silence reigns
Screams are hushed down to nothing
Cold winds blow
And there is nothing anymore
(Or so the iceberg would have you believe
As it waits for you to sink)
There is a sense of stillness, of Zen,
when it comes to such cold fury
Medusa’s snake hair would be envious of my stare
My anger is the end of the world.
Touch me and you’ll freeze.
Touch me, and you’ll burn.

Life is a hypocrite.
A liar, a cheat.
A tease, a bully.
A carrot-dangler.
A lover of never-ending cycles.

Why?

To see who is brave enough to call it out.
To see who is smart enough to catch it in its lies.
To see who is strong enough to stand up to it.
To see who is wants it enough to get that carrot.
To see who is determined enough to break the cycle.

And if you’re not?

Then it teaches you how to be.
Only, it’s up to you to learn the lesson.

Isn’t it beautiful?