All the People of the Universe

I was reading some entries from blogsecret on Tumblr (which, by the way, is bloody everywhere, eh? I might just get one) and I had an “Oh God” moment.

I know people’s lives are screw-ups. I get that it’s hard to live and it’s a constant struggle to… go on and go about every single day. But then I get my friends and some of them would make me forget about that. Some of them would make me think “Oh uni is total shit.” or “they’re so lucky, it doesn’t seem like they have problems at all”. In a way because I’m not exposed or because I don’t really have such experience, I wave it by and I tend to forget that; life is hard and that people are constantly fighting to live, to survive. I would think that my problems are on catastrophic level and everyone else, they got it easy.

Well, not really.

What I’m trying to say is that those secrets, those entries made by strangers.
Some I can relate to.
Some I totally get.
Some I laughed at as I read it. I’m sorry if it’s not meant to be funny but from my quirky point of view, they are.
For some the only proper response I could come up with is “Ooookay.”
Some make me want to cry. Because, shit man… you got through it.

I want to hug all of you, the self-hating people. Just because I want you all to know that there’s at least someone who cares about you. Just because I know how it feels like and it fucking sucks.

I want to… I don’t know, make you feel better. I know this may sound totally cheesy and “wtf” worthy but believe me if there’s any way I can do it, I would.

I want you all who misses their ex or their bf/gf, the people who want their crush to know how they feel toward them to get whatever it is you want to get, whoever it is you want to have. They have no idea how lucky they are to have people like you caring about them from afar. I’m telling you, they have no idea.

You are worthy of someone loving you and you deserve all the love you can get; the morning kisses and the comforting hugs, the silent glances of support and private jokes, the one whose hand you instantly reach for in panic or in joy. I can only pray that you get the person you’re meant to be spending the rest of your life with. Yes, I still believe in that.

Life is just fucked up and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that it ruined everything for you and your beautiful self. It happened to me, too and I’m still recovering. I’m still mending the pieces back together. I don’t think we can fully recover but never, ever, forget that you are strong for having the ability to move on from whatever it is that happened to you.

It will be okay.
It will be okay.
I promise, it will.

I love you.

The Words (Finally) Has Meaning

How exactly do you know that you’re a grown-up?
I don’t really know how to pinpoint it but right now, I’m having one of those moments. The “this is happening right now because you are mature” moment.

Today is about a phrase you’ve heard probably thousands of times.

They used to mean nothing to you. If you’re in some deep shit and you can’t see how you’re going to wiggle yourself out of this one, and people come by and in their own way, pat your shoulder and tell you “things are going to be OK”, your usual response would be a scoff and a “how would you know?” Because, really… How would they?

Of the many many revelations I’ve had for the past… Say, couple of months, this one hit a much deeper chord. Because I’ve been in both situations before, the advicer and the one given an advice to (advicee?) My form of support for you, my friends in need, generally would be to leave you alone.

I know from experience that if I say “oh things are going to be OK” it’s like giving you smoke; useless stuff. And I can’t really reach over and hug you real tight and let you stay there for as long as you want to, as long as you need. Because I get tired easy and since I have RLS I tend to fidget involuntarily when my legs are not fidgeting, so I don’t want to make you uncomfortable leaning onto me. And because I don’t have the courage to do so. Most people who broke down before my eyes are the ones I’m not close with, and I don’t want them to think of me “dude, what the hell?” If I hug them.

That leaves me with shoulder pats.
Or leaving you alone and praying for you. But, see, even the last one’s troublesome. Because I’d pray and what happened would be the opposite of that. It’s a long, dysfunctional, sometimes quirky relationship I have with God.
Don’t ask me to explain, because all I can give you is a shrug and an “I don’t know.”

So. I would leave you alone and say nothing. Maybe because I know that when you’re in such…occasion, you’d want privacy.

I’m babbling.

Anyways.
My point is that now that I’ve gone through some stuff, I believe that. I believe things will be OK in the end. I was watching CSI: Miami and that Caine guy (whose speaking tone I dislike) told this kid “things are going to be OK. I know it doesn’t seem that way right now, but it will.”

It has been in my head ever since I heard it.
I used to wave my hand and say “yeah. Right.”
Now I get it. Now I say “I know.” And in the end, when the shit is over and you look back on it, you’d smile. Because of the simple fact that it’s the truth.

11 Years

I started out at the school when I was… I think 4 years old.
I went there when I was 3 but then I kinda made a bad impression at the nun; saying “your name’s like my uncle’s dog’s name”-which was true, they have the same name-and I was born on September ‘88 and they didn’t want anyone who’s born after July ‘88 so I had to re-take the “interview” thing once again the following year.

See, I knew from the very beginning that it was going to be my school. Probably because my mom kept telling me “this is where you’ll be going to school” the whole time.
I had no idea of what was to come.

Kindergarten flew with a first experience of a heartbreak, being involved in a school play and musical performance (I played angklung, I danced… I danced!) and freaking the teachers out about that murder case that made front page news (because I could describe what happened so vividly; courtesy of my aunt and my parents talking about it a gazillion times).

Grade school passed with other heartbreak experiences and now that I think about it, I don’t have the slightest clue about what’s so heartbreaking about the guy. Maybe because he was all nice to me and then when I finally said (means: gave him a letter) that I liked him he turned into this… asshole.
Sometimes I wonder why I keep falling for the wrong guy. Sometimes I wonder if they’re the reason I’m what I am now.

And then middle school, and it was fucked and traumatizing and haunting and to this day, to this very day when I’m sitting at Starbucks with my legs crossed and my almost non-existent iced black tea, I still can’t get over it. There’s a basic, primordial fear and intimidation that I feel toward that place and I can feel it every time my sister asked me about my middle school experiences-how’s 7th grade? How’s 8th grade? What did they actually do to you?-or tell me the stuff that’s been happening at school.

I miss the place when I was there a month ago-revisited after so many years of avoidance. I hated what it did to me. I don’t like the fact that it still haunts me.

11 years of… that.
And what I have in mind is not the prettiest memory of them all. Not the fact that I got compliments for my english stories. Not the fact that I enjoyed the last year of it and that I was sad to part with my friends. Not the fact that I’ve spent practically half of my life there. No.
What’s left; is the taunting. And the leering. And the whispers. And the feeling; the feeling of having no one.

Thought Provoking-Random Soliloquy

I’m used to growing up and not wanting, not expecting anything from my parents. Because it would either end in disappointment or… No. No or. Because it would end in disappointment.

I went to my kindergarten classes alone. I watched other kids get giddy every Saturday because either their mom or their dad or both of them would pick them up and they’d all buy Coke or fried tofu or tempeh or magazines and they’d look like… Family. And I had to wait until 2 pm, if not later, almost every weekend, if not every day.
I didn’t make a big deal out of it. It didn’t seem like it’s a big deal to me. But maybe it is. Was. Is. I don’t know.

I went to Semarang alone; in a plane. Which was good because it made me feel like an adult but now looking back… I’m not so sure. Dad was injured but she could’ve gone with me. Or could’ve just tell them that I can’t go. Or whatever. They were playing this twisted mind game and I was stuck in the middle of it. And I didn’t know.

My memory of joking around with my father would always bring me back to that point when I was little and we were in an exhibition. The yelling that came all of a sudden; the terror I felt; the shame and the humiliation and the need for someone to… get me out of there because I couldn’t get myself out of there because I didn’t know how-what would you expect a 6 year-old to know about those big exhibition halls and where to go-so I was stuck there. My little self crying and wailing from the slap that I got and the feeling of utter fucked and the terror and the intimidation. And I could pick him peeking at me from a distance. There was a lady who came over and she offered me to come with her but I just shook my head and say “no” repeatedly. How did I get to go back to the house again? Don’t ask me.

My memory of defending my cousin is tainted with another humiliation that I got in front of the whole family. It was my fucking rainbow toy. It was fucking mine.
But then again; what do you expect a 7 year-old to know about self defense? You were taught that “I bought this thing for you and I have the right to have it as long as I want and to give it to whoever I want.” So I went to the corner when he told me to and I stood there. And he yelled. And everybody’s staring.

And you learn not to lean on your parents anymore. Or to joke with them. Or to tell them stuff.

As you grow older you realize that you need people to fall back on. And you have your friends for it. Not your parents. Never your parents.

Most of the time; you have to pull yourself together and be strong and not whine about every little thing. Because you’re older now and with it comes more responsibility and if you don’t commit yourself to it then… What’s the point?

Now, in the span of days, you realize that you lean on your friends in more ways than you’d ever known. And that you lean on yourself more and more, and this is called maturity. A lot of people grasped this younger than you or older than you but for you… For me… It just happened.

One of Those Days When I Wish I Could be Different

I want to tell myself to stop being so insecure. I want to tell my mind to stop thinking just for a minute and let me have a moment of silence on my own. I want to be able to say to myself “you’re good enough”; some days I would say it because I know it to be true, some days others would do it for me, some days I would need to remind myself why I was able to say it.

I don’t want people to be awkward around me; I don’t want to be awkward around people. I’d like to think that if we resolved to arguing, I could stand up for myself or just silently walk out the door and take a walk. But when the time comes, why do I get the feeling that I would either yell or cry and you would either yell or cry and then eventually walk out the door.

I want to be better and I’ll take my chances and frankly, I don’t give a fuck if it’s a double edged sword for me. It isn’t right, this. My not being able to say anything because for me it seemed like… Whatever when the truth is I don’t know what to say. If I were there then maybe it would be different. Or not. Maybe it would be the same; you’d tell me stuff and I’d just sit there and nod like those head bobbing car accessories.

Then as I’m writing this I feel like I see everything with my perspective and that maybe for you it’s different, maybe you don’t feel that way.

I’m losing my point. It’s lost somewhere between my conscience and my thoughts and my heart. They’re all speaking at the same time and I’m trying to listen to it and let it all out but they’re all mixed together now. The point is: I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t tell me stuff. Even though most of the time my only response would be silence.

After everything. Everything.
The feeling of inadequacy is still here.
It’s the silence. The silence that I can’t break; not because I don’t want to but because I’m not capable of it.

And It’s Gone

No more self questioning. At least not for the past few days.

I am who I am.

No more insecurities. They’re gone and I do hope they’re gone for good.

No more of that. I know better now.

maybe this feeling will fade away,
maybe the bad stuff would be back.

But for tonight, and for yesterday, and for the days before that.
I feel OK with myself. I feel like I own up to who I am.

*nods*

This is Home

If you’re asked about what home is, I’m sure you’d come up with many different answers.

This is Home project is a newly launched project about the definition of home; by words and pictures or collages. A brilliant friend of mine, in collaboration with her editor, just launched this project a few days ago. A lot of people have been participating and I’ve seen very, very good entries as well.

It’s a shitty time we’re living in, but projects like this reminds me that there’s something more out there than… I don’t know, all the bad things we’ve been exposed to for so long.

When Did This Get So Complicated?

Sometimes… most of the time… I really wish I could tell you how I feel. How much I care for you. Or the fact that I want to hold your hand.

There are days when this feeling gets too overwhelming that I don’t know how to deal with it anymore.
Should I just tell you how I feel? And how would you react?

Laugh it off?
make a face and say “what?”
Tell me that you love me back?

This. This was supposed to be a joke. A fling. It’s supposed to mean nothing.

But this turns out to be the exact opposite of it.

Know that I love you.
That I care for you.
That I want you to tell me stuff just for the heck of it.

Is that too much to ask?

Time Phase

Some nights are lonelier than the others.

Some days are harder to get through.

There are times in my life where what I need, what I long for the most, is to get a hug. To lean on his chest  and to circle my arms around his waist. To pull down the sheet, lay next to him and listen to him breathe. And do nothing else. Absolutely nothing.

Those days are hard. I’d feel so alone and I don’t know what to do-because I couldn’t just shock people out of their core and hug them-and I’d end up burying it down, as deep as I can just so I don’t have to deal with the way I felt. But it comes back. It would always find its way back and it would leave me craving it more. Twice as much. Then thrice. It goes on and on and on…

I like to imagine that you’re here with me
We’d hold hands and walk. wherever you want. wherever I want. whenever we feel like it
You’d slump your head on my shoulder and instinctively, I’d tug the lose end of your hair and ask you anything.
Rough day?
What’s wrong?
You OK?
You would sigh or stay silent.
I would stay silent.
Then you’d talk. and I’d listen

Some days I would crave you so badly.
Some days I sleep with your shirt lying next to me.
Some days just hearing your voice, your phantom touches, they are not enough.

I like to imagine you’re here with me
Crooked smile and scowling eyebrows whenever I say something weird
the mellow sound of your voice when you whisper in my ear
the smell of your body soap and shampoo all over me in the morning

Do you not get what I’m trying to say to you?
Can you not see it in my eyes-the pain that would be there every time I had to drop you at the airport
the joy and the sparkle whenever you’re around
the need of making love to you

Do you not get that I’m trying to say I love you?

Masquerade

I opened WordPress just because I want to post a random rambling and instead I found one of my old posts here. And it struck me how easy and effortlessly (it seems) for me to write down the things I wrote. Like it just came out the back of my head and my hands did not have the trouble to express it all out.

But lately I have faltered from such things.

I was always good at cheering myself up. If someone asks me what is it that I’m really good at, I think that would be the answer. I have the ability to pick myself up and post a learning lesson about it. Only lately, I have not had any valuable lessons to learn. Life goes on and it gives you this… piece or equipment to run and I do it like I always do. But along the way I forgot to pick up the important stuff.

I was really impressed with what I wrote. I mean… call me cheesy or whatever, but it’s true. What actually happened to me that I have now lost that voice?

I always tell myself that what I’m good at, it’s either not really needed in life (Who the hell needs someone who can do accents but cannot act? Or someone who knows tunes but doesn’t know hot to play the frickin’ piano? Or any instrumental piece for that matter?) or it only has a good use for myself. Which is… pretty much the same of saying that it’s useless. For other people.

If I’m going to do things right, then I have just found my new year resolution.

You have to take matters to your own hands and not wait around for someone else to give you a divine message. Sometimes a divine message can come from yourself.