Tag Archives: desperation

Self exploration through writing

On the way home from the store tonight, I was thinking about how most characters in books have certain virtues and talents that get them through life and hard times, such as being courageous or have a great voice (like in the book Fairest), or how many fairy tales the princess has to be beautiful and that’s what helps her, while the men are strong and brave, and don’t back down, they don’t give up. Steadfast.

So I was thinking about my characters. Since I started my writing exercises last year, I’ve focused mainly on one character, and though I do have others, they’re pretty similar. And, well, they’re similar to me, because I have a hard time writing outside of my personal experience. I can write characters that already exist, or base a character off a real person, but since my writing exercises are for me alone as a form of therapy, my characters take on traits I either see in myself or wish I had. When I write these characters down, and look at the story from afar, I can see things so much clearer than when they’re in my head, when I’m examining myself. I have to step outside of myself in order to see me better.

Claire is definitely not perfect. She has anxiety and depression, feelings of worthlessness and the strong overwhelming desire to be worth something. And in her desire to help in any way she can, she’s also afraid of messing things up, which in turn can mess things up. I noticed she has a strong maternal instinct, she has the desire to protect and to care for others, even if she doesn’t know them. She’s a nurse and a fighter, tending to the wounded after fighting a battle. She’s also practical to a fault, one some might call a “stick in the mud.” I don’t get to test out my prowess on a battlefield (and I’m sure I’d be bad at it), but I do know I’m good at taking care of people. It’s like some sort of auto-pilot comes on and I just go…

I do have a strong urge to protect people, and to help them, and to make their lives better in any way I can. I don’t know why, it’s just how I am, despite that I pretty much don’t trust anyone and am constantly on my guard. And as strange as it is, I’m loyal to a fault as well. Those people who have hurt me over the years, the people who have backstabbed me and betrayed me… I have continued to keep whatever secrets they may have told me, and I refuse to go on my public scenes to complain about them, and even here, I don’t mention names. I guess in a way, I don’t even hold it against them, really. I can still be civil with them, even if I can never trust them again. If someone else is fine with them, who am I to besmirch their name? What happened was between them and myself, no one else. I think there are maybe two or three people who I have told anything to over the years, and I’ve told them because I know they won’t say anything to anyone else and they won’t seek out any sort of payback for me. I do not need anyone attacking anyone else because I said something.

And as weird as it is, I would still help those who have hurt me. If I had the means and they needed my help, I would help them. That’s just how my family is. I can’t imagine being any different. And it shows in my characters a lot. They’re lonely, protective, desperate to be worth something, and willing to sacrifice themselves for the good of others. They are not heroes, they are in the background helping the heroes. They don’t want attention and if they can help anonymously, they will, because just the knowledge that someone might be happier, even just for a moment, because of something they did, it’s worth it. Even if it’s just smiling at someone who looks like they’re having a bad day or buying someone a coffee, or even just leaving a piece of artwork for someone to pick up.

I want to make the world a better place, I want to help people in any way that I can, and what better way than to go out into the world and touch people’s lives? It would be better if I wasn’t so… anti-social and socially awkward, and an outsider. Even if society deems me to be a freak and unfit to join their ranks, even if they bully me, and people like me, I will continue to do what I can to help others. I think that because there is so much pain even here in the states, that’s more reason for me to go do things to help out. I know the states has it easy compared to many, many other countries, but this is where I am, and where I can do the most good for now.


The teenage diaries

I did have a bit of teen angst in my old diaries, but the depression made everything worse. Some people on facebook were sharing things about shows where people can go to share their old diary entries and make fun of their teenage selves, and so I went to look at mine, but I can’t laugh at it.

I still feel the pain, so well. I remember the knives, the pills, the darkness… and the darkness’s sweet embrace that was always just out of reach… My entries either read as a Captain’s Log play by play on things we did, or it’s a whirlwind of confusing emotions and me trying to process it all, ending with how exhausted, emotionally, I was, and how I was just tired of the pain.

“Oh that the darkness had taken me! I would welcome that darkness with open arms, if only to be rid of the pain… silent agonies… ripping at my heart, tearing my soul apart… and there’s no one to tell…”

I wish I could laugh at my teenage self for well, being a teenager, but I remember it too well. And besides, I wouldn’t laugh at a teenager who came to me upset over something I thought trivial. That’s what being a teenager is about, experiencing new and very extreme emotions, and trying to figure them out. Sadly, some teens have to deal with things like anxiety and depression along with everything else. And I cannot laugh at that, and I feel bad because I should be able to laugh at myself. I can laugh at stupid things I’ve said, like “I’d rather die than commit suicide!” (I think I was 9?). But I can’t laugh at the pain I was in, and everything else I wrote was pretty boring, like a news article.

“I wonder what plane I will fly in next. I sort of know, but I don’t know what it looks like. As big as a 747? That’s what I flew in on the way here. I don’t feel like I’m in Korea… I don’t know what I feel. Except that I feel no fear. None. I get a little nervous here and there… but not like I thought. I feel very comfy with not being able to speak the language (the security guards wear berrets!) 🙂 I wonder how it will go when I meet up with Wang Xin. Because it will be her country and language. Such an old and complicated language too! I hope I can learn it well and fast. My brother seems to have a knack to pick up languages. He speaks Japanese quite well, though for some reason doesn’t like Chinese. Oh well.”

When I write, it’s to transfer information, or to try to organize my thoughts or just get my feelings out. Like when I have a conversation with someone, phrases mean things to me whereas they’re just filler for other people. I don’t say things I don’t mean, and I don’t ask questions unless I really want to know the answer. My journals are the same, cataloging my days, my emotions, and what happened when. I have stacks of notebooks full of stuff, and it’s interesting to watch me go from being excited about having people to hang out with, to being flat out confused as to why they suddenly stopped caring about me, why they were lying to me, using me, and back stabbing me. It made me so cynical and now I don’t trust anyone.

I will not become attached to anyone again. I will not be used unless I say so (there are some situations where I’m meh about it, and will allow it because it’s no big deal). And since I can’t tell who has selfish motives most of the time, I treat everyone the same. I expect nothing in return, so when I get nothing, I’m not disappointed. I expect people to ditch out on me, because it’s happened so many times. For once, I’m not upset that my husband didn’t get me anything for my birthday. I would prefer it if my birthday ceased to exist, I think. I have more important things to worry about than whether or not someone forgot the day I was born. Again.

I may be rather jaded and bitter and cynical right now, but I won’t let that get in the way of wanting to help people. I just wish I had more to laugh at in my journals…

Venting/freewrite (warning)

I am a ball of emotions that are tumbling around in this red world full of emptiness. There is nothing, there is no one living being, there are no plants, there is no water. Only the stones that build the layers upon layers of bridges and plateaus. No ceiling, nor floor, nor walls can be seen. I feel empty, I feel lost, I feel confused, I feel angry, I am full of rage, I feel depressed. I want to scream, I want to break things and throw things, and scream. Holding it inside is something I’m used to. I cannot let it out anymore and it kills me. It’s eating me from the inside out. Writing it out is my therapy, and it’s the best one I have. I am stressed, I am worried, terrified, and my dreams are full of fear and helplessness. 

I wrote a part of a dream I recently had down. “Danny lay curled up in the fetal position, not daring to move. Fear had paralyzed him. He was painfully aware of his nakedness and vulnerability, but he no longer cared. What did it matter with the monster still nearby? Never had he felt so powerless. He heard a grunt and shuffling sounds as if the monster was getting up again. He prayed it would just ignore him and leave. Hearing the footsteps come towards him, his panic flared. No no no no no no. He whispered over and over again. Not again, please not again. A strangled cry escaped his lips as a large hand gripped his neck. He knew it was futile but he fought with everything he had. His attempts got a laugh out of his attacker. He was picked up, flailing, and thrown like a ragdoll through the air, landing in a crumpled heap. He pushed himself and stood up, trying to run away, but a foot caught him in the back and he fell down again. Gasping for air, he tried again, knowing the beast was toying with him as a cat would a mouse. Sometimes the mouse could escape if the cat got careless.

It let him run for a while, giving him a fleeting bit of hope, before easily catching up with him. He knew the second before he was going to get caught and prepared himself. It grabbed a leg and hung him embarrassingly upside down. The monster wasn’t that much taller than Danny, so his head almost hit the ground. Seeing a chance, he grabbed a leg and in a swift motion pulled himself to it and bit as hard as he could. He was rewarded with a yell and was promptly dropped on his head. Lights flashed before his eyes but he scrambled up and ran again. The beast was through playing games and was on him like fire, beating him with its fists.

Danny lay sprawled on his back on the ground, barely aware that the monster had stopped beating him. He was gasping for air, but his chest hurt so badly to breathe. His attacker let him rest a little before grabbing an arm and flipping him over. Danny closed his eyes and cried, unable to fight it anymore.

There’s so much more to it… I tried to write it down with as much feeling as I could, so that anyone reading it could feel within their very soul the helplessness, the futility, the feeling of being trapped yet trying so desperately to escape, grasping at any glimmer of hope. Crying only releases a little of what is trapped inside. There is a monster inside and I can’t let it out, even though I desperately want to. I think it would do more harm than good, but perhaps it does more harm being kept locked up. Maybe if I let it out, people would realize I’m not as well off as they think. Haha, like I want them to think I’m actually dangerous. I’m just in pain, agonizing lonely desperate delirious pain. I don’t want to die, I just want to be free. I want to soar with the birds, swim with the fish, run with the horses. Their lives are harsh, but they have a freedom I desperately long for.