Today, I only had one plan in mind: I would have killed myself when the day ends.
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For one whole day, I left a space in my heart for me to exist. No factors of today would have changed from the previous. It will all go according to course, so there would be no point in trying to do anything differently. Apart from the fact I would pay attention to what I was truly thinking, in the grand scheme of things, today will not have been different from yesterday, and today will not have been different from what tomorrow will bring of me.
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I woke up and got ready as per usual. I put on the jewelry I always wear, and clawed my hair to look neat enough. Lip balm was all I could muster, and without lipstick tinting my lips. Pale and still peeled, having healed from all the bleeding, was out on full display. A thick, grey hoodie, a source of comfort; a shield from the cold. A quiet hope, but not for myself.
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"Had anything ever been?" I thought.
My life runs faster than I could ever keep up. I thank the tricycle driver. I walk across the pedestrian crossing, and I eventually thank the tricycle driver again. Yes, it's always the same, dull pavement.
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I stop to let the cars pass by before I do. It's cold and quiet here. Perhaps it would be good to know of sleep, because there'd be no one that would judge me here. Today, nothing can hurt me, because there would be no me by the end of it. I brandished myself, but almost numbly, still, until sleep drifted me away.
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Their faces are obscured to me. That commanding, authoritative voice is going to mean nothing soon, so I took it all in. If embarrassing me would have made them happy, then I would let them relish in their joy. Sitting back down having said nothing in front, perfection loses its grip on me.
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"Nothing can get to me," I said.
My failures are already apparent to everyone. My image is already tarnished. There is no use in keeping it all up, in pretending, in being superficial. People believe in what they see, and it is even harder for them to believe in what they don't. I don't know what they see or don't see in me. Not even I believe in what I show. Maybe I would like to ask for the last time, but, like most things, would I have been better off not knowing?
Thinking of that, I hold my tongue.
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I mindlessly doodled on a piece of paper, carefully connecting each line. A form of calm, maybe of solace, maybe of an externalization of pain unbeknownst to me. Drawing is the only thing I could do.
My seatmate writes on my paper. Of notes and announcements said by so-and-so. She adds doodles to my drawing. "They're like vines." I hadn't thought of that. However, I had thought of strangling her. With all the restraint left in me, I would not want to commit a greater crime onto others than the one I had already committed by simply existing.
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I take a deep breath and choose to humor her anyway, despite my upset, despite my violated being,
"Because it would not matter by the end of today," I thought.
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I crammed two assignments due at the same time, within the next thirty minutes. Upon realizing I am done, once again, I am treated like a machine by her; one with no emotions, no feelings. Like clockwork, I tell her what she is meant to review for the assessment in the next hour.
"A robot, huh," I muttered, pausing. "Would being one make anything different? I see there's only little distinction between them and I."
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I let that thought drift into the wind.
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"Do they have full autonomy over themselves? Maybe I could understand them, slightly. I, too, want to make this life my own. Not running according to certain sets of code or programming."
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I let that thought drift away, too.
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"I wish I could be free."
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I pass my paper, and the next hour comes. For once, I look realistic. I smile according to what is societally expected, but for once, it is not depthless. I smile to laugh at myself for an offhand comment, of certain things I ended up saying honestly, and I laugh because my surroundings are funny, not because I am obligated to. Someone broke a desk chair for leaning their arm on it slightly. The whole desk came apart. Multiple times, and it made a loud sound multiple times. I felt like I was in a try not to laugh compilation.
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I had laughed truly for the first time in a long time, I felt my belly ache.
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I sorted it out with my groupmates. I felt articulate; I did not try putting on a fake voice, consciously or unconsciously. I spoke rather monotone, not paying too much attention to their facial expressions. The period ended abruptly and there was an hour or two to spare.
My seatmate asks of me to take a quiz she just found. I was fond of Greek mythology for a while. I once had someone who appreciated it earlier than I. I wanted to sleep, I wanted to do something other than this, but I suppose I could entertain her for the last time. I had already been so angry at myself for having lived so long without changing anything, and I would have been angry at myself for being angry at myself, because that does nothing, and nothing ever will, but I could not externalize that anger. The only way I know how to connect with others is to become nothing, and so nothing I adopted.
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"I told you, I will go with things as usual." I could not say anything, I couldn't do anything, because I knew it to be true that I will end up doing the same things—same as always, anyway.
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Once finished, we didn't converse much else. I do not think I can be truly seen, but I guess I am seen through anyway, whether I like it or not, or whether I know of this or not, or whether or not I like that others know or don't know me very well. A series of contradictions such as these I have harbored in my mind since I was little. I don't remember much of being little,
and from my conversations with others today, it became apparent that I don't remember much at all, and it is sad because I seemed to have felt older than I was, watching the world go on as it did, and to face the fact that I have no such thing as unflawed reasoning, so how could I say that I, in my young but old age, have gotten any wiser, any better?
But there's no use trying to uphold anything, right? I mean, in comparison to my peers, it is true that I am a dull color, and they, like everyone else, shine with their own vibrance. I don't remember half the things I learn, and I can't remember the last time I truly knew something from the bottom of my heart and felt confident in telling others about it. Speaking only brought me to ruin, and so I made it a pact within myself to never tell anyone about anything at all, because only bad things happened when I opened my mouth,
and I would have executed every part of me had I said a word that would hurt their feelings, because I can't have a repeat. I can't have a repeat of all the times I had said the wrong thing and of all the times my mouth has led me to destroying the only good things I had, and only further destroyed what I knew had already been long gone. I thought myself to be the only target worthy of hearing those vile words, because there is nothing else I know, and there is nothing else I have been taught to know apart from the fact that I am livestock, and branded as such, and so the following is burnt in my head,
the fact that I am a disappointment, that I will never be good enough, that I am a disrespectful daughter, that I am an ungrateful one, that I am selfish, that I am narcissistic, that I only care about myself. That I never make time for other people, that I am always preoccupied with my own purposes that I neglect everything else. That I talk too much, that I am too noisy but sometimes too quiet, I am too shy but I am never allowed to speak up for myself, because apparently it is known to everyone that I am simply just a child, that I do not know any better and that I never will. That crying is useless, that I will never be ready for the real world and that I will end up alone. That there is nothing desirable about me, that I will never be attractive, that there is a reason why I am left by everyone I once loved. That there will always be a part of me that is broken, that will continue to fail, and is never allowed to make mistakes. No more than three, but even if it is not a mistake, even if it is something I believe to be justified, that there is reason for this justification, I will be seen as a mistake anyway. That I am incapable of changing, that I will just stay right where I am and never move forward, that I am not seen as capable of doing better because everyone has gotten sick of the repeats, gotten sick of the hurt and gotten sick of my existence not having changed, and yet I still tried to change, and I still tried to believe that the world around me would change and it became clear to me that whether or not I changed my existence inside a world that only knew how to hurt me, it would keep on, in its own, wicked way, going on to see me however it wanted to see me,
a scab I never let heal, because I am not someone that was allowed to, and has had to sit with the crowd who has everything together, and I, a fake.
No one knows what happens to me but myself, and even then, I am betrayed by my own being. By my own memory, by my own desires, by my inhibitions and by everything about me. Even so, my being is the one thing I can't let go because it is still me, it's the only thing I have, and even if I come to hate me and be angry with me, it will still be there and stay in a way that no one else has.
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It's time to go out of the classroom and eat something. My seatmates, the ones I've called friends for so long. [I tried to hide all of the times they hurt me. Still,] I treat them to food. The air is greyer than usual, and not much conversation is made. Surprisingly, I am the one who talked the most, even though I did not say much of note, or anything that important in particular. As for someone who does not talk all that much, it is a testament to the silence permeating the air that I am the one who talked the most. That would only mean the dialogue spoken was very little.
Everyone goes home and I offer to take out their trash to take away from their worries. I converse with one of them before leaving. I walk the grey pavement again.
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The world can hear your hope flicker.
It smells like rain, and the grass is slowly greening.
Trees have withered with time, with living proof of how they tried to reach the sky.
The dandelions will say hello, and so will the birds desperately looking for sustenance.
Vehicles pass. My voice is garbled.
There’s nothing more suffocating than the heat.
You’d wish you were consumed by the Earth instead of birthed.
I am a part of the world.
A dandelions’ body flows, and there is a white butterfly.
Grant my wish. Show me life made of miracles.
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What will I do after this? I don't know. Across the clear road, I tread the pedestrian crossing. I thank the tricycle driver, and I do it another time, and then I finalize it with my third. I wish I had told them to keep the change. Everything has been hard lately. I wish I gave all the beggars a full meal with all the money I'd brought instead of the snacks I'd bring them whenever I go home. The sun is as bright as usual, but the skies are paler than I remember. I make it up the stairs and have grown to realize why they might be scary, and I leave space at my side, treading up the stairs slowly. Knowing my body, it's like it's almost giving up on itself.
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How taxing it is to maintain your own existence. Were we humans really meant to live this way? Is the reason why I'm so drained and empty is because the world is moving in a direction that doesn't match me at all? Is there a world out there that will?
No, we haven't gotten there yet, really. Honestly, it'll be a while. This world is the only one I know of. Have I grown to love it? Maybe. What have I grown to love?
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I slump on the floor, sneezing and coughing uncontrollably. I collapse, lying on the floor without moving much. I open up my phone to sing a song that I liked, and with every repeat of me never getting the pitch right, I began to cry.
I prayed not for my own existence. But for others'. Yes, my prayers were always for others. I don't think I could think of a time I prayed exclusively for myself. Did I lie at the beginning? That I would only think of myself today? No, but somehow, yes.
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I pleaded to God, to become a vessel, to cry for those who couldn't, to cry for those who weren't allowed to. Yes, perhaps this is the cross I have to carry. But it is not one I reject. Even though I hate that this is the truth, I could never really come to hate it at all.
Because no matter what has been dealt to me, I will inevitably love humanity.
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I cried for three hours, and I slept for the same length. I had exhausted myself from crying that sleep came naturally to me, and for once, I had let myself sleep because I might never know what it is like to sleep without the world on my shoulders, and so I surrendered myself to a nap without repercussions. Without giving myself consequences or punishment, only sleep. Before sleeping, I had only told God,
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"I surrender."
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Upon waking up, I had to buy dinner for myself. They had already eaten without me. Yes, this much is natural in this place. I have grown accustomed to their obscured faces. I tell myself that I want to get out of here, that I just want to get out of here, that I want to get out, that I want out.
But I end up going outside and putting on my slippers to buy myself dinner, since I can't actually get out without consequences that'll forever change the possibility of me ever having a reality that isn't the one at home. And so, I choose not to do anything, really. Keeping up just enough pleasantries. Maybe for a couple more years.
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"Won't it be exhausting?" I hear myself whisper.
"Has there been a day where it hasn't?"
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Silence befalls me, with a smile that I try not to force, since I, of all people, don't really have a concrete answer to that either. It's not something that can be answered or measured, maybe just an assessment of how that feels now.
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"I mean, there have been days where it wasn't exhausting. It would be nice if the bad ones didn't outnumber the good by like a pretty large margin, I guess."
"I guess."
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The night air isn't any colder, nor is the warmth a comforting thing. Not a lot of things have been comforting lately. The voices in my head are no better, nor are the other parts of me. Still, I'm all I have. I repeat it to myself, I'm all I have.
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I cross the road rather carelessly. I felt a speeding car pass by the hairs on my head and had not that much of a reaction. I got to where I'm getting my own dinner, and I bought some pork belly. It occurred to me that I really was okay with dying then and there. I guess you could say that. I don't know if it's because of the numbness or the desensitization or the apathy or maybe the lack of everything or if it's because of everything that I feel nothing at all, that nothing else could happen to me that'll make me feel worse than I already do, that it's because of that I end up not really caring what happens to me.
But I guess there's food, so.
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I walk back to my house and I get a plate and utensils and get some rice to pair with it all, and it isn't really anything noteworthy. The situation, the food, nothing's really all that different and it made me think that anything could just happen on a normal day, really, but I guess today would just be me going out pretty normally.
I've had every opportunity available to me to just up and disappear or to do The Bad Thing because I'm just rarely paid attention to, here.
I laugh to myself a bit. Yeah, maybe this is its own form of wanting attention, too. Humans tend to think more simply and complexly at the same time, and I've thought it over multiple times, and I know how both simple and complex it all is. I'm no stranger to it, really. Spelling out the words "I want attention"… I guess that's too much? Maybe it stems from a deep sense of pride. I don't know. I don't know myself, so I guess I don't know? Am I genuinely qualified to make opinions, then? Those are just a couple of thoughts running through my head.
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There's some stuff on the table before I left. I guess I'll eat that too. I prayed and then ate my dinner. All my devices are charging and they're all low on battery so I can't distract myself on the table. It's been a while since I just sat with myself while eating, and safe to say, I do like doing things since it kind of takes away from what's going on in my head. Even if it's something such as eating, which I've grown to find exhausting lately, everything does, but I gotta eat anyway. I always separate my food and unconsciously leave things for last, so I guess I don't really eat all that normally.
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I don't know what could have surprised me the most. Out of all the efforts I've done today, I guess I didn't really expect it. I ate the soup and found myself thinking that,
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"I don't think I want to die."
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And it's funny, isn't it? After eating, I took a shit in the bathroom and I cried while I was on the toilet, shitting simultaneously as I cried with my iPad in hand. And maybe it's a bit pathetic to be living on, not because of some great purpose that I suddenly found, of my mission that I should embark on or something that miraculously made me realize what I should have been doing all along, or that my life is gonna change because it is kinda clear that it kinda won't. I say kinda because you'll never really know when it will or what it has in store, even if it's just a bowl of mushroom soup. A bowl of mushroom soup is still a bowl of mushroom soup.
After writing this or after this happened to me today, I didn't start feeling better, in fact, I actually kind of don't think I feel better at all. The world is still kind of shitty, and the beautiful things, I mean, are still beautiful, but I don't really have the words to describe how numbing the feeling is which is why I end up not really feeling all that much for the things I used to enjoy, but I guess that's a part of it. I'm always just guessing what to do, for the most part.
I suppose it's quite anticlimactic. I don't think I can give an overarching life lesson that'll magically change the trajectory of my life or of others'. Some messages of hope have rung hollow to me, but I guess the present is all we have. I think we all know that isn't always a good thing. I guess the next question I'll ask myself is just, "What am I gonna do after this?" To have a "next" somehow gets you out of that thought process, at least for a bit.
All I can tell myself is, I'll just try to keep on doing things, keeping myself going. I'll slip and fall and cry and be miserable and look like a fool and I'll fail and I'll be criticized and be hated. That's true. Living is hard. I've already been denied my own control.
In the midst of such a normal day, where I tried to do everything as planned, where I thought of everything to be a certain way, there was still something that I didn't expect. Maybe I wouldn't have known of such a yummy thing if I had decided to go all those times I thought of disappearing all throughout the years I've been on this Earth.
I lived and got myself here long enough to taste a nice mushroom soup. I'm crying right now.
Isn't that achievement enough? For most people, not really. But it saved a part of me. Living is already hard. The fact that I experienced today is in itself an achievement, however form that took, since I'm literally still fucking here, crying over mushroom soup, and instead of contemplating my own death, I'm crying over mushroom soup, and not about wanting to die.
And maybe there'll be times where I want to disappear. That's undeniable, at least… since I know the kind of person I am. But I'll hold on anyway.
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The day is ending soon.
I'm still here, and will continue to be. I'm holding on, for better or for worse.
Whoever is reading this, I don't expect you to be proud of me, or to do anything, for that matter. But deep down inside me, I wished someone would tell me if I meant something to them. That's just my desires speaking. My desires vocalized and said plainly for once.
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I guess you could say it was just soup. But I'm here. I'm still holding on.
I don't know how to end this message. Maybe it's only fitting that there's no definite end, because my world did not end nor did I choose to end myself. There's nothing else I can say apart from the fact that I am still living. And maybe one day, I will come to accept that it's okay for me to be alive.
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Today, I lived because of mushroom soup.
by 🌱