An Ugly Color
When I’m feeling specifically out of the water; where commonality among peers is a rarity and safe zones are no zones, there is the tendency to turn into this greenish brown toad monster of which everyone in her path is zapped into pulp.
I know, this is an ugly character, one I am not particularly proud of as she sulks endlessly or bursts in outrageous litany about trivial things. Its’ root cause is basically the feeling of isolation from the place she believes she must always belong to. Hence, the retreat journey to the deepest part of her core, to her insecurities compartment; in doubt of her value – in doubt of everything else. The morphing of harmless encounters into acidic betrayal. The bile rising to exterminate the illusion of Cloud-9. The wretched self-hatred of being insufficient, the clutching dependency to be important: the anchor that stabilizes.
What an ugly color indeed: a mixture of disgusting entitlement and the desperate need to be irreplaceable. A romantic’s dilemma, a realist’s hidden agenda.
I wrote this during a shadowed duration in 2018. I can’t seem to find the date.
I haven’t been completely honest with you for a while now. No, I haven’t been cheating. No, it’s not that I’ve lost interest. It’s just that there has been a lot going on in my head and I’ve been keeping them bottled-up. I know you can feel it with each Okay and Never mind that I utter. I know that I’ve wounded you in some way by not saying what I’m meant to tell you. I made you feel useless at times when I melt down or throw a tantrum. I haven’t been explaining myself in the words that you would understand and I know this apology is a little too late and not too proper because honestly, when given the chance to bare my soul to you — I can’t do it anymore, not like I used to; things are different now. We’re not just friends, we’re more… and I constantly thank the universe for going its course and bringing us together. You are the best person in my life and I don’t want to lose you and I know it’s stupid and it’ll only drift us more apart if I shut you out but I often think that if you’d dig deeper inside my psyche, you’d realize that I am not worth it. That you’d see me for what I really am, nothing but an empty shell: unsure of herself, of who she is and what she wants. You have been my anchor, the one that tethers me to this world, always saving me without your knowledge. You make my fears go away and yet you are my fear personified. You love perfection and I’m sorry I can’t be your perfection.
It has always been a mystery to me why my parents have supported my siblings’ ‘passion’ throughout their childhood. How my sister was sent to voice lessons because she had a unique timbre, or how my brother was bought his drumsticks, drum pad and now, drum set because he liked to play percussion, or how, every time they want to try something new, they are encouraged to do so.
I remember way back when I wanted to express myself and was given a half-hearted acknowledgement. A nod, a pat on the head, an exaggerated ‘wow’ for my mediocre art and derivative flash fictions. Though they did supply my art supplies and sent me to art lessons ONCE, it never really took. When I wanted to explore and learn the violin, I was given a NO. When I wanted to try and explore outside my comfort zone, walk around the city alone, I was given a NO. In college, when I wanted to join extracurricular clubs which met during the weekends, I was given another strong NO. When I wanted to pursue a degree tied to writing and words, I was given BS and a NO.
I have always struggled with accepting the family business because I have always wanted to pursue something else. Yet, as an adult, the more I am exposed to the hardships and perks of this life, the more I am eased into the idea that I may not get to achieve my dream after all and that might be okay (hyperventilates in the background). With all of this in mind, it then hit me: I have grown up in a family where they appreciate the humanities and arts but do not have the passion for such. It answered the question why my siblings were showered with party favors and not me. It’s because music, singing and dancing were arts in its most popular forms. You don’t have to be smart to appreciate these things. You don’t have to fit into a ‘type’ to relate to these expressions whereas written words are that of the silent beauty. You need scrutiny to appreciate, you need imagination to appreciate and they did not have time for this… they did not have time for me. Present as they may be for my physical growth, my personal growth has always been a question for me. Am I the best that I can be? Am I tapping my utmost potential? Am I as mediocre as I think myself to be? I wish, so hard, to have an opening. A window of opportunity to enhance my skills in the field that I LOVE and it has always been mixed with poorly hidden judgmental looks and feigned interest. Maybe this is another reason why I’m such a bad employee. Maybe this is why I’ve been on auto-pilot for the past one and a half month? Maybe this is just who I am? Unorganized, disheveled, tardy and a lot of other things I’m not proud of.
Maybe Thanos snapped parts of a person’s existence as well? Like my inclination for arts? For the written word? For caring about myself enough to know when to stop eating?
I was trying to modify my site but then wordpress decided it was time to force me into a premium subscription.
Contemplating where it’s time to do it or create a new blog under a new email?
Is it time to pay for something to ensure my work is more accessible?
*inside voice* not in a million years.
I have been too busy eating up TV shows to actually write.
How do I prove to everyone I can do shit when I don’t do shit?
And I feel like I’m coming to terms with this 😦
For most girls, a mirror is a sacred trove that unveils blemishes that can be scraped off by mere tools from derm clinics or the latest cosmetics breakthrough. There isn’t much else to see in a mirror but the reflection of the exterior, the shallow, the seen. I stopped looking at mirrors a long time ago. The ugliness it uncovered made me cringe on sight. It was not as conspicuous as most blemishes, it was bone-deep. The extreme unsatisfactory taste of my own soul ebbing into the surface of my generally clear skin was too much to bear on a daily basis.