m.i.a.

It's been a while.

Then again, it doesn't feel that long. Life has been so hectic as of late, I haven't time even for myself. Partly due to the exams (all down to the last minute stuff, which explains my unending underachiever status), partly because I've been terribly depressed these past couple of weeks or so (and boy, did I want to write about my feelings but thought better of it), and also because of my extra-curricular activities (might be starting a business with some friends, so watch this space because I'll definitely be advertising it here).

So where to begin? Considering this is supposed to be a substitute for therapy, I guess talking about my feelings is a good start... I don't know where to start. Too many things bringing me down, and I hate to be specific because (a) I don't think I should be, and (b) the story would never end. The best I can make out of it is a general, ambivalent view of things because that's how it really is anyway. My life is a nebulous cloud of stars slowly fading out one by one.

It's like being a spool of thread. And everyone you hold dear is tethered to an end, and they're all around you pulling and tugging because people you really care about have a strong influence on you. Some more than others. And so your whole being is constantly jostled around, back and forth, here and there, slowly unravelling until finally -- from something that had a lot of potential for greater things -- there is nothing left.

I just realised my parents don't know me at all. Well, not really. I've felt that way for years, but recently they confirmed my fears by making it blatantly obvious. There have been hints now and then from as far back as I care to remember, little things that surface which makes you doubt the veracity of it all. And you keep telling yourself it's fine, let it slide, whatever nevermind. Until one day the truth strikes you squarely between the eyes, and you regret not dealing with those nagging thoughts, the uneasy feeling in your throat when you're faced with something you don't like so you don't face it all. Hell, you knew it all along. You just didn't want to say it. You just didn't want it to be true, so you kept it locked away in the deep recesses of your mind.

A lot of good that did. Like spilling spaghetti on the floor and, instead of cleaning it, you sweep it under the rug. Unbeknownst to you, it starts to turn bad in a few days. In a few weeks, there's a funky smell in the room but it doesn't kill you or anything. Out of sight, out of mind. But for months now it's grown into something unrecognisable, covered with mold and festering with maggots. It's hideous, and it's probably poisoning everyone in the house with a fungus infection. And now you're all dying. But it's too late to change anything, and it's all your fault.

And so it festers, to the point that it takes a life of its own in your head and finally you're resigned to the fact that you're strangers living under the same roof. It's not easy to accept, knowing they don't know you at all. But what can you do? A few weeks ago, my Dad invited a friend over with his family (which we're all very close to) to discuss and help out with my sister's preparation to leave for London to study in January next year. He (my Dad's friend) sent his kids to study there as well, so my sister was really glad there were folks to offer her some advice.

And so we were talking over dinner and having a ball of a time. Jokes were made (my Dad's friend is a real joker -- like, laugh-out-loud funny) and questions were asked and answers were given. It was fun and informative; very fruitful. I made a joke about my sister being given the opportunity to study overseas even though I was denied that very same opportunity when I asked for it a few years ago. Everyone laughed (because I'm a very funny person as well), and you could tell it was a joke and there was nothing bitter about it. There was nothing to it, really, and I was definitely over any negative feelings by then because it was so many years ago. I'd moved on from that juncture in my life.

You should have heard my Dad's laugh. I could have sworn there was a tinge of something cynical to it. Maybe even a bit of guilt. No one else noticed, and of course I didn't mention it out loud. The rest of the evening was splendid; a great time was had by all. The next day, very early in the morning, he messaged me on the phone while I was on the train.

Your sister can't take the pressure anymore. But she wants to pursue a degree.
We should all support her. I hope you understand.

Damn if I didn't want to call him up and scream my lungs out. To totally misconstrue what I said was one thing, but to mock me by having to tell me we should all support her and that I should be understanding about it... Christ! I was so fucking angry it soured my mood the whole day in school. You don't know me at all, Dad. It was a joke. Nothing more. Yes, I was hurt. Four freakin' years ago. Thanks for making this pseudo-apology now. In a message through the phone, no less. And now that you brought it up, why did you tell me I couldn't go anyway? Just... you know, curious. I'm not bitter or anything.

Was it because you thought I wasn't good enough, that I was gonna throw away all the money spent on me? I asked again two years later, when things weren't working out for me where I was. Did you feel maybe, in retrospect, you were right about me? You should have said something. At least I wouldn't have kept wondering why. At least I wouldn't have doubted myself, if I had known in fact it was true.

And were you thinking, when I joked about it, that I was still stuck in the past? That I was begrudging the fact that she gets to go and I didn't? Do you really think that I'm that shallow, that I wouldn't support her and be happy for her? Well, I am rooting for her with all my heart, Dad. No, I'm not resentful towards her (or you, for that matter) at all.

But it hurts. In those four sentences you brought up my past, and then you made me feel small in your eyes. In those four sentences, you proved to me what I've known all along. That you don't know me at all, Dad. Twenty fucking years, and you don't know me at all. And by God, it hurts.

Turns out to be just like I said. A never-ending story. Didn't wanna be specific, but look what you made me do. So what else is there in my bag of tricks? Well, how about the fact that I've been arguing with my Mom almost everyday now. It never ends because (you guessed it) she doesn't know me at all. Quit comparing me to my cousin when we're talking about money, Mom, because his Dad is a taxi driver and they don't have a lot of money to spend and if you want to do the comparing then let's compare the cost of our house and their apartment, or your Braun Buffel purses and Prada handbags and your car to what his mother owns. What, is that unfair? Or just too in-your-face?

Is the only way to know me, to understand what I want, to understand how I feel, is to compare me with someone else as a point of reference? It's me we're talking about, Mom. Me. You don't even know me, which is why it's so difficult for you to understand. Am I such a fucking disappointment it's hard to see me for who I am, instead of using someone else on a different playing field to make me feel guilty about everything? Can you make it any more obvious that you don't know me at all, Mom? I really doubt it.

Wow, it's so long and I haven't even gone on about my friends. Friends who are mostly good for a laugh and nothing more. The real ones are few and exclusive, and thank God for them but they let you down just the same sometimes. Which kinda makes me sad, but hey that's life. What can you do?

I've covered family and friends. Anything else? A lot more, in fact. Insecurities, exams, a non-existent love life. You know, the works. When it rains, it pours. And I'm drowning in it. I'm descending so far down, I can't even tell if I'm just sinking or if I'm digging myself deeper. But I just can't be bothered anymore. A lot of my friends ask why I started smoking. Well, the truth is I just stopped caring. I get a kick out of it when I'm listless, and it's been a few years now so I'm already addicted to the nicotine anyway.

It's funny how clichés turn out to be true. It's like I don't even need enemies; I've got you guys to let me down. Can't even tell if I'm gonna be missed when I'm gone (if only I had a gun to experiment with). I feel like I'm losing something inside me, like my soul is dying. Giving pieces of it to everyone I care about, hoping they'll nurture and strengthen the pieces so when it's time to give them back to me I become whole again but like never before -- better, stronger, purer, more complete. But some are never returned and some get lost, and some are neglected and so these fragments of me start to fade away. And in the end I'm just shattered glass.