Dear Diary 01
i’ve finally sat down to share my actual feelings with you, which isn’t easy for me, as i’ve always been afraid of putting my thoughts down in my very own diary, too. call it fear or paranoia, but i’ve always known that someone, someday, would read it and frown at my corny words and bad grammar.
i’m the eldest daughter, diary. i can’t show vulnerability without feeling nauseous. it’s shameful, it’s disgusting – yet i’m trying to do it. i’ve got to let it out, or i’ll die with a pit in my stomach. i fear there’s a hole in me, pulling me towards it with so much force that my knees buckle, my heart throbs, and my head spins.
today, my diary, i accepted that i was wrong in my judgment of a friend of mine. the act was humiliating, yet i couldn’t deny it. if i hadn’t accepted my wrongdoing, the facade of maturity would have slipped, leaving me vulnerable and alone. i would’ve had to accept that the thing around which i’ve built my whole personality was nothing but a lie. it’s too much trouble.
i’ve always prided myself on my ability to read situations and people. behavioural analysis is one of the key components of my survival instincts. i had judged a friend – let’s call her ‘u’ – to be nice and naive to my other friends’ faces. i had been confident in my analysis, and my friends validated it pretty quickly, too.
yet today, my analysis was shattered. ‘u’ acted in a way that fell completely outside my understanding of her, outside the system i’d built around her. it left me disoriented. i tried the old dissociation method, just so i could escape the realisation that my analysis was wrong – and, especially, that i could never have imagined ‘u’ doing such a cheap thing.
it feels threatening when someone crosses a boundary you’ve built around them in your mind. but she did something disturbing – disgusting, even.
she hid her lunch from me.
she. hid. her. lunch. from me.
as i was some sort of thief, ready to steal her food. i was speechless. why would someone even feel that way about me? how could someone think of me in such a cheap manner? i’m not a thief. i’m not famished for her food.
my cheeks burn with shame as i put myself in her shoes and imagine what she might have thought. i can’t ask her for an explanation either, because there would probably be some obvious explanation, something that undermines my overanalysis of the situation. there always is a better, more suitable explanation for why my brain functions the way it does and why theirs is working just fine.
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what pains me the most though is being perceived wrongly. it physically hurts me to think that someone may have misinterpreted my words or actions. i want someone to psychoanalyse me too.
i’m tired, diary.
i want to laugh with someone, some creature, without thinking about the brutality of the human condition. i just want to feel something genuine – any emotion, any feeling, but something purely genuine.
i’m starved for genuine things.
not for someone’s food.
i’m starved for genuineness.
what to do and what not to do? should i speak or die? should i plead or leave? is it even worth caring? again with the paranoid thoughts. all i have are questions, yet i don’t seem to be ready for the answers. maybe because i’m aware that truth is bitter. it shatters everything and leaves you – gasping and spiralling, with no hint of remorse.
i’ve become the moth clinging to the illusion of safety. i’m that hypocrite who, after committing blasphemy, is afraid of committing a minor sin. however, my very existence is a sin. if it weren’t for sin, there wouldn’t have been an earth. (i’m an agnostic, so i don’t really know.)
i like the earth. i don’t particularly like humans as individuals, but from a distance, as a collective, i find myself fond of them, too.
my thoughts seem to be all over the place. they’re drifting here and there and sometimes nowhere. yet they’re all pretty much connected – just not through a single thread. and does my worry really have to follow a certain pattern or rhythm for it to be taken seriously?
