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It has been almost a year. I have all these voices in my head and nothing to control them. I have contradicting reasoning and no one to tell me which one is true or which one is false. I'm my own person, a lot more headstrong, and a lot more fragile.
I'm starting to think that being headstrong is just the surface of all the vulnerability, fragility that I'm trying to hide from everyone around me.
I met Elia today, and she suggested me to start writing again. I told her, I have no idea what to write. Everything I write turns to ashes and it frustrates me. She told me, what I've written is good, always good. And I cringed. It's not good enough. I'm never good enough.
But I want to start writing again. Although it's not that good. Although it's rubbish. Perhaps, I can straighten out all these voice in my head. They are scaring me. I wish I can stop thinking for a while. The only time that I can stop thinking is when I sleep. Which is why I like to sleep. It helps a lot.
Perhaps one day it'll be good. My words can find its soul. And I can find the soil to the roots that make me suffocate.
I know my writing at this moment doesn't make sense. But here I am writing. I know it's not cohesive, but I'm still writing.
Mommy and Dini said that I'm not matured. I'm immatured. Dini is more matured than I am. When I want to start talking about how amazing I think Elia is, when I want to start telling them how Elia inspires me, and how I think Elia is a more matured person than I am, they told me that everyone can be more matured than I am. And I was trying so hard not to cry. Perhaps I am that bad. No, of course I'm that bad. Of course.
My struggles don't make me grow, though I have struggled so much. Perhaps my struggles were nothing. Everyone else struggles more than I do. And I should not complain, or bring up on anything. I have no right to be proud of everything that I have gone through because they are nothing.
Mommy also told me that I am not that strong, compared to her, when she got home from overseas. I'm weak, fragile. Perhaps I am.
Abah told me that I should take charge of my own life. Perhaps I am not taking charge of my own life. Perhaps by taking charge of my life is to die. When I commit suicide, I'm taking charge of my life.
You see, these are the things that have been going through my head. And they are scaring me. There are times that I want to drive so fast, and hit a wall. There are times that I wonder what it feels like when I cut my wrist. Perhaps I can feel the calmness inside here. Somewhere inside. Here.
Today my brain made its round again. I don't like a person, and I know why. I don't like Naqib and his family, because his mom told me that I'm fat. And I know I am. But I still don't like them. I didn't like Iylia's wife because she was jealous of me. But I think she's getting better. I can like her now. I think.
Then this other voice in my head was questioning me, is there any possibility that I don't like these people just because I'm jealous of them? Because they have the rizq to be married at such young age but I don't? I don't think so, but then I doubt. I doubt, perhaps I do.
Perhaps.
I'm feeling unimportant, and replaceable. Mr W can just replace me with someone else if I decide to resign. Because I don't bring any profit. I am a loss. I am at lost.
Panic attacks are my fault. I could suppress them for six years. Why did they come out? How were they there? How.
Everything is my fault. None of them are anyone else's fault. I can't die because if I die, people will feel guilty. But if I live, I'm nothing. I'm just a burden.
I think there's something wrong inside here, somewhere inside. Perhaps I only think that I want to die, but I don't want to die. Perhaps I'm feeling all these because I feel the need to act like this, because some people act like these. Perhaps I think that I might have mental illness because other people have it. Perhaps I cry alone, because I'm faking it.
I'm going to end this now. I'll write again tomorrow.
I'm starting to think that being headstrong is just the surface of all the vulnerability, fragility that I'm trying to hide from everyone around me.
I met Elia today, and she suggested me to start writing again. I told her, I have no idea what to write. Everything I write turns to ashes and it frustrates me. She told me, what I've written is good, always good. And I cringed. It's not good enough. I'm never good enough.
But I want to start writing again. Although it's not that good. Although it's rubbish. Perhaps, I can straighten out all these voice in my head. They are scaring me. I wish I can stop thinking for a while. The only time that I can stop thinking is when I sleep. Which is why I like to sleep. It helps a lot.
Perhaps one day it'll be good. My words can find its soul. And I can find the soil to the roots that make me suffocate.
I know my writing at this moment doesn't make sense. But here I am writing. I know it's not cohesive, but I'm still writing.
Mommy and Dini said that I'm not matured. I'm immatured. Dini is more matured than I am. When I want to start talking about how amazing I think Elia is, when I want to start telling them how Elia inspires me, and how I think Elia is a more matured person than I am, they told me that everyone can be more matured than I am. And I was trying so hard not to cry. Perhaps I am that bad. No, of course I'm that bad. Of course.
My struggles don't make me grow, though I have struggled so much. Perhaps my struggles were nothing. Everyone else struggles more than I do. And I should not complain, or bring up on anything. I have no right to be proud of everything that I have gone through because they are nothing.
Mommy also told me that I am not that strong, compared to her, when she got home from overseas. I'm weak, fragile. Perhaps I am.
Abah told me that I should take charge of my own life. Perhaps I am not taking charge of my own life. Perhaps by taking charge of my life is to die. When I commit suicide, I'm taking charge of my life.
You see, these are the things that have been going through my head. And they are scaring me. There are times that I want to drive so fast, and hit a wall. There are times that I wonder what it feels like when I cut my wrist. Perhaps I can feel the calmness inside here. Somewhere inside. Here.
Today my brain made its round again. I don't like a person, and I know why. I don't like Naqib and his family, because his mom told me that I'm fat. And I know I am. But I still don't like them. I didn't like Iylia's wife because she was jealous of me. But I think she's getting better. I can like her now. I think.
Then this other voice in my head was questioning me, is there any possibility that I don't like these people just because I'm jealous of them? Because they have the rizq to be married at such young age but I don't? I don't think so, but then I doubt. I doubt, perhaps I do.
Perhaps.
I'm feeling unimportant, and replaceable. Mr W can just replace me with someone else if I decide to resign. Because I don't bring any profit. I am a loss. I am at lost.
Panic attacks are my fault. I could suppress them for six years. Why did they come out? How were they there? How.
Everything is my fault. None of them are anyone else's fault. I can't die because if I die, people will feel guilty. But if I live, I'm nothing. I'm just a burden.
I think there's something wrong inside here, somewhere inside. Perhaps I only think that I want to die, but I don't want to die. Perhaps I'm feeling all these because I feel the need to act like this, because some people act like these. Perhaps I think that I might have mental illness because other people have it. Perhaps I cry alone, because I'm faking it.
I'm going to end this now. I'll write again tomorrow.
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