Another ultimatum

I don’t have anything more to say. I’ve written many drafts but I quickly noticed how they add nothing to what I’ve written before.
It’s another piece of evidence that I have been thinking the same way for the last few years.

The first major independent decision I made in my life I regretted. The most crucial of the things I’ve lost was my confidence.
I remember wanting to be at school just because I hated home, and wanting to be at home because I hated school. At the age of 18, after many years of thinking, I traveled to study abroad. That didn’t solve anything. In fact, it made my problems feel inescapable; I couldn’t “leave” my problems and travel away.

There were many ultimatums I have given myself. I wrote: “I will do my best effort, but if I don’t achieve X in Y days then I’ll have to make big changes.” Most ultimatums weren’t met, and I learned to save myself the paperwork.
There’s one thing I was always ashamed to admit. I tried not to say it or write, because as long as its only in my mind it could be untrue. I always wonder how different my life would have been if I was born in another random place. I can’t help but think my life would have been better.

The last few months I have been trying to slowly rebuild my confidence. The first step I took was to not think about the past. In that spirit, I believe I must stop writing in this blog. Because as soon as open the page, I get a heavy feeling as I remember the past all at once. I hoped I could write something very good as a final post, but I couldn’t. I really had nothing more to say.

There maybe some unpublished drafts that I will polish and publish, but I hope to focus more on the future.

“Everything in its right place”

It took only a few days, a couple of days to be exact, for everything to be back the way it used. The phrase I hoped to avoid using is that everything is back to its right place.

I don’t where the feeling that I shouldn’t be alive comes from, but I’ve had it for as long as I remember. Even if it went away, I wouldn’t know how to live otherwise.

It amazes me how I can have the slightest amount of confidence. Maybe that is how confidence works: you are confident as long as you are certain. It doesn’t matter what you are certain of.

It gets annoying to realize the right response only after the window for it has passed. But it is nothing compared to the helplessness of thinking that it has always been out of my hands. The very core of my identity is flawed, and it has always been that way.

It feels more helpless to see that flaw in the eyes of others. When your mistakes are immediately forgiven, and when you are not expected to be any better. I sometimes wonder how many people who know me looked at me and thought to themselves: “I have so much to be grateful for” in the same way that statement is said when looking at terminally ill people.

It’s me against them, everyday. Even the closest people to me seem so distant at times. Like everything else that’s flawed in me, I notice my flaw but I cannot fix it. At times, I wish I wasn’t even able to tell when I’m doing something wrong. But I’m paranoid, and I can’t stop it.
Because I believe that the moment I stop being paranoid would be the moment I am most vulnerable for those who are plotting against me.

My mind is going away. I don’t know the medical term, but I know what I feel.

Everything good in my life I sought because I knew I had nothing else. It was one-dimensional; transcripts, awards, and any physical evidence I could find that I was good. Almost every time I am mentioned, the evidence is mentioned too. As if to balance out everything else about me. An average of two extremes.
Everything good in my life was the compensation I offered for my identity.

What I fear is that my mind will go before I have more evidence. Everything is in its right  ugly place now. But in a few years it might not be.

To borrow the greatness of a mountain

I want to be good, you know? To have some value to someone.
Both by my own standards, and subjectively.

My story must be heard, an evidence that I have existed. And if I pass by a mountain, a great old mountain, I will engrave my name in it. I will borrow some of its greatness. The possibility will always remain that some passers will see the great mountain, and they might see my name engraved on it. They will know that I existed.

That’s the extent, isn’t? The limit.
Nothing is better than being remembered, and nothing is worse than being forgotten.

I have a feeling I will die thinking I was forgotten.
I would die the same way some wild animal dies in some of the world’s forests. A body without identity.
I would get eroded and withered, not like the summit of a mountain, but like some unremarkable rock.

The worst of the worst is that I will adapt to it, that it won’t bother me, that I will get used to that image of my silent forgotten dead body.
After all, I have become used to be forgotten in life. It shouldn’t be much harder to be forgotten in death. I wouldn’t even be there to endure its difficulty. All in all, isn’t my death easier than my life? Because I live to mourn being forgotten in life, but I wouldn’t be around to mourn over my corpse in the middle of the forest.

I am already getting used to it. In fact, I look forward to it.

I am tired, and mountains can never be tired. Even if I engraved my name, it will be weak and it will be eroded before anyone can see it. Even if I went up everyday, and engraved my name again to make sure it remains, I’ll die knowing I’ll be forgotten.

Strength and Confidence

I can feel my body almost starting to shut down by itself. My teeth hurt, my head hurts, and my face has an influx of acnes and random spots. It is somewhat relieving to know that he too has given up with me. That is not at all shameful. We had hopes and we worked for them. We failed, and failed, and failed. We became too bitter. We now became more bothered by others’ fortune than by our own misfortune (not that we had control over either). Old and unfixable, we became. When we were younger we had years to improve. Now those years are part of the past and part of the problem to be fixed.

I, myself, am in a terrible state as well. I daydream too often, and too deep that I lose awareness of time and place. My struggle everyday has become to avoid crying. I see the things I want around me, I become aware of how much I want them, and I become very aware of how unlikely it is to actually achieve them. I am as weak as human, and a passing hope carries me through once in a while. I start to interpret every event as an indication of a potential gain. But I learned that hope is the torment of the loser. There was a time where I shielded myself from “wanting things” and thought I was on the right track to being where I wanted to be. I was content, although an observer would have thought I was sad. I grew, and hope grew with me. I wanted more things and I had hope that I could obtain them. Why I did not obtain them is of little relevance now. My character has been engraved into my body, and neither of us can be fixed now. Hope has led me to this desperate state of weakness and doubts.

Through the weakness and doubts I managed to salvage one last piece of strength and confidence. A strength and confidence from being too aware of every doubt and weakness. A shining of the highest magnitude. A calmness of having an objective view and evaluation. A shield against hope and its corresponding deprivation. I can avoid hope’s tricks now, since I know he only lets me closer to what I want only so I can desire it more and then suffer its deprivation more.

As a kid, I used to get over any physical or emotional pain by pinching myself as hard as I could. The pinching was intended to be so severe that the original pain would pale in comparison. It was a relief to know that the worst scenario was something I controlled. (Oh, how I pity my younger self as much as I pity this one).

I think: Don’t I still have control over the worst scenario?

You will see me as an enemy, and you will hate me. But it is necessary that the worst pain you feel must be caused by me, not by life nor by any other reason. It must be controlled, regulated. And for every failure of yours I will incur the greatest punishment. Then, at least, our many wounds would have been cut by our own hands. If pain is inevitable, then I prefer to endure its extreme by choice and by my own hands. Then, at least, I would protect my piece of strength and confidence from the weakness and doubts of having it inflicted upon me by life (or any other reason).