i wish i had written more on this blog, and written more in general. now my last piece here will be my final suicide letter.
somehow ironic how the thing that has brought me some of the greatest comfort has been the cause for me needing it.
iāve always disliked writing, especially when i first immigrated. i couldnāt speak english and it was hard for me to be able to come up with anything to write, i could never figure out what word to use or even what the meaning of the next word should be. i cannot tell you the amount of times i stayed up for days at a time working on essays and reports because i never knew what i was doing. but when i did, it was great. i think. at least i hope so. it felt that way to me. even when everyone else had a better piece.
but thatās my problem. i can sit there, in front of a screen, a keyboard, a paper, for hours on end and not a single thought would come, or at least nothing i knew to express. i can do this with anything, i can be physically present and not give or receive anything of value because i am so stuck in my own head thinking about everything and nothing all at once. my own thoughts confuse me. i make my self confused. i attempt to trace my own thought process and in those efforts branch into something else entirely. and in the end it all becomes so convoluted itās all a blurry willow i hide under.
so i ended up studying i knew wouldnāt involve a lot of writing, and then i betrayed myself again. i thought i was good at math and analysis and what not and i am! however, thatās not really the type of person i am is it? i like these things, theyāre fun, not necessarily fulfilling. so i do what i do best: i get bored.
i get bored so often, so easily, so quickly, itās second nature. when i was little i would tell my mom i was bored and she would tell me to stop saying that so i dont become a donkey. she never told me to stop being bored though. so i held it in, and i took it and i grew it and i nurtured it. i raised it and nursed it. my boredom became mine. my child, my friend, my lover, my companion, my sister, my mother, the greatest thing i could ever have.
i was bored all the time, nothing was ever interesting enough for me to pay attention long enough to create a true attachment, because i know where home is. and home is boredom. im bored even now, i can learn all these things, all having a new, refreshing, enchanting new potential, and in three weeks (generous time frame might i add) itās not fun anymore, because i get it. i get it enough. i get the jist. or i do it, and then i canāt cuz itās too hard or itās too easy, or it takes too long or not enough, it takes too much effort or too little. i need to be consistently reminded to care. i have to talk about it. but who wants to listen to me? and if i canāt somebody else has to, and usually (not usually, almost exclusively who am i kidding) a form of media (ie a kdrama, see! i cant even be truly honest on my self made deathbed!!). and is that not pathetic? that i have to be reminded to love and care? that i canāt do something so human on my own?
i wish i loved. i think thats my greatest failure in my life (not even the literal ones; omg i cant even take myself seriously; you would think my most limiting decisions and lack of motivation would be it but no. itās not loving). i donāt think i have ever truly loved, anything, anywhere, or anybody. i would love to say i have loved my friends but thatās not really it is it? i care for them and i hold a type of affection that is surprising to most, a tad overbearing and a tad separated. i think thatās the problem, i observe too much and i cant connect. i hold grudges and hate and i never forget, i might forget why but i never forget. and so here i am. because if i have never loved whoās to say i have been loved? there could be an argument that care and affection are kinds or subsets of love, but regardless if that is the case, my love is so different and voyeuristic it only further alienates me because nobody loves like i do, except maybe the loml (light of my life), and even then, theres a goal. iām justā¦there.
i donāt know what there is left to say, i cant love, ive never lovedā¦hmm oh yes!
the depression
too much i think. i think, well, i donāt know.
if,
if?
if
if my life in general was, different,
in the sense that, i wasnāt poor, if i didnāt have depression, or anxiety, or my menstrual disorder, or whatever other physical or mental ailments, i want to believe, that i would have still been good. that i could have possibly been well adjusted, while still being myself. one that felt the need to be creative, not because she felt it was all she had, or that she had to add something to her life because it was so lacking, but because she had an urge, an itch, a craving, a calling, because it truly felt to her that she would perish if she didnāt because she had no actual idea of what it felt to die. to do something she loved. a passion. a passion forā¦
my problem is the fact that i, actually no, itās not a problem, i am just quite literally not built for this, iām sensitive for goodnessās sake!! i canāt have my hair fall out and my heart beating twice the speed it should be. i shouldnāt have to. i shouldnāt have to survive and live like this.
iām not one of those people. iām not that type of daughter. the exceptional woman. iām not that. i canāt be that. i canāt. iām just too lazy. itās not that i donāt care, itās just i donāt care enough to do it. i donāt care enough to soar. it never felt like i would anyways, because i know thatās not me. it was never gonna be me. so i have to die.
because thereās nothing for me to fight for. iām not a girl worth fighting for. and that is okay! there are other people who donāt have half of what i have that deserve it more. and i always had a feeling that i was never going to live long, i donāt deserve to. iām just making room in the world for more good.
yours,
forever forsaken
