I was cleaning the room when I saw a brown bird hopping by the windowsill. I chucked a tube of anti-fungal cream towards the window-a bad aim- and watched the bird fly away, feeling smug. I regretted it, of course, because I secretly wanted the bird to come back and keep me company. It didn’t.
I went to bed last night with a heavy feeling; it’s the kind of heaviness that turns up at the oddest hours with no warning, like a surge that passes in and out. I suppose writing is the only way for me to make this heaviness finite to some degree; put it to words, make it measurable, re-type, delete, make it sound better–at least in writing– and maybe turn it into cold comfort and make myself believe it’s real comfort…when it’s not.
I dont know anything about mother’s instinct, but I feel like my mom felt my tossing and turning in bed and went in the room to stay with me. She lied down on my bed and asked me what was wrong. I told her I couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking and thinking, and I cannot control my unstoppered thoughts. She asked me if I was thinking of him. Maybe, maybe not. I do think about him, but he’s not the only thing in my thoughts. He’s not that special. He’s just a bad experience.
She tucked me close to her and told me that it’s alright to feel –to spend my nights thinking of someone, if that person really were special to me, that it was normal. I told her it shouldn’t be normal. I told her I hated it, the way it happens. I feel as if I am unspooling my brain, unraveling the cords after molding it so tightly, keeping it tucked away in my skull, never to be touched.
I feel like a mother, coiling a ball of yarn tightly and keeping it out of reach from her naughty kid, and at the same time, I feel like the nuisance who gets the stool to pick up the yarn and uncoil it just for the heck of it. The mother enters the room and scolds her child, coils the yarn again and hides it somewhere else, just like how I punish myself from unraveling all these memories no matter how many times I try to get rid of them. And just like the kid, surprise surprise, I find myself searching for these memories at the oddest hours, especially when the mother is not looking.
But I am no mother and I don’t have a kid, and what I am is a person who makes excuses for everything, who lives by the words, “If it can be justified, then it’s not so bad.” Yet most of the time, my justifications aren’t even rational. Especially when it comes to people. Why? Because when it comes to people, I treat them as absolutes, and everybody knows that in this life, there are no such thing as absolutes. I am only setting myself up for failure and what’s worse is that I am aware of it, and I still do it.
No I am not addicted to pain nor drama. No, I don’t romanticize sadness. Maybe I’m just really stupid, after all. What else is there to call me? I really, really am stupid when it comes to people. So stupid to think that anyone can be your absolute–always there, always here, always present. There’s no such thing. I’ve known this for the longest time, but does knowing equate to accepting? No not really. Just because I know something doesn’t mean I accept it and this is what’s wrong with me. I have to–I must–accept what I already know, otherwise I am making myself a voluntary imbecile, stupid by default only because I choose to be stupid.
I have to disagree when my mother said that it’s okay to feel. No it is not. It’s not okay to feel, especially when these feelings have no benefit to me, when it keeps me awake at night pining for something, someone, that is out of reach. Feelings are not okay. It’s not okay to feel, especially when I know that I lose myself every time I attempt to feel anything . It’s not okay and it shouldn’t be normal. I have to be stronger than this.