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*