Again, I'm not sure what spurred this. But knowing me, it was probably one of those "episodes". Whatever. Hehehe.
Originally posted July 26, 2006[reposted because of this]I don't know what's up with me today. Is it something I ate? The lethal doze of caffeine and nicotine I ingested? Some sort of hormonal imbalance, perhaps? The heat?
Whatever it is, it's turning me into some sort of maudlin idiot.
I wasn't kidding when I told Gen, Roy, and Mark at dinner earlier today that I'm inexplicably overwhelmed with all sorts of unnamed emotions. I just want to cry and lash out at anyone, anything.
For whatever reason I cannot seem to fathom, a storm is welling up inside me. I'm at the brink of explosion, an explosion so catastrophic that I dare not let it happen.
Had this been a decade ago, I could have easily used my depression as a shield and retreated from the rest of the world. But this is now. This is today. And I must keep my personal melodrama in check lest I get too overwhelmed to work. I must sublimate my sentiments and focus on more lucrative endeavors.
I rarely say this, but at this very moment, I really do mean it -- I miss my parents.
I want to crawl into my parents' bed and just lie beside my mom. No talking, no whining, no complaining about life. I just want to be with my mom. I just want to lie still beside her and bask in her presence. I want to feel her strength, her wordless assurance that everything will be okay.
When did this happen? Me growing up, I mean? How did this happen? How did I transform from a carefree, careless kid into this? -- This adult who slaves in the name of that elusive deity called Responsibility? This adult who has to think about bills and money and survival? This adult who is currently lost, overwrought with nostalgia?
This sadness, this inexplicable sadness, is not a symptom of some absurd desire to relive my childhood. I have no wish to relive the confusion, the idealism, the myriad of complexities. I barely emerged from the fire unscathed, and I have no wish to go through that again.
What I do miss (if this sadness is indeed nostalgia) is the safety net. The false certainty that all my mistakes could be attributed to youth, to a lack of maturity. The belief that my parents would always be there for me -- whatever trouble I managed to land in, whatever the extent of my stupidity. My parents were always there, an enduring bark to cling to each time I stepped into a quagmire.
Mark, my beloved Mark, has done all he could to take care of me. He has taken more than his share of the burden. I couldn't ask for a more loyal, more loving partner.
But like me, he, too, is playing the survival game. He, too, is vulnerable to this expansive quagmire. If I sink, he will sink with me. I can only console myself with the knowledge that when adrift, he will keep me afloat, holding my hand until we both succumb to the abyss.
I started writing this entry without a clear direction in mind. If I had a point, the point is lost to me now. What is my point? What answers am I seeking? What relief? What solutions?
This is not me playing dress-up and pretending to be an adult. This is me as an adult, fraught with infinite worries, plagued by countless responsibilities. There is no life to go back to, no basic simplicity to revert to. I had been too proud; I have been too proud; I am too proud.
This is me as an adult. And I can no longer dream of growing up to become a better person. I have grown up. And this is the life into which I had grown up. This is the life I created for myself; the path I chose to trek.
And ironically, when I'm not in one of these moods, I like my life. I can even go so far as to say that I love it. And the person I've become? She takes getting used to; but false humility aside, she's a pretty great gal. Someone you'd be proud of.
So, if I had a point, it is this -- I have seen my reflection through a broken mirror. Perhaps by chance or by fate's design, I stumbled across the shattered ideals, the broken pieces lying in the dark. And I now see fragments of my face staring back at me, accusing me of immeasurable crimes.
But tomorrow, when I turn on the lights, the fragments would have been carried far, far into the sun. And what would remain? Perhaps only some lifeless debris.
That is not much of a point, really. It is not even much of a metaphor. Be as post-modern as you want. Deconstruct the symbolic implications. Read me, if you will. But I no longer care.
Hear this:
What I am is tired.
I'm emotionally, physically, and mentally exhausted.
I'm tired of being strong. I'm tired of wanting to be strong.
I'm tired of keeping it all together.
I'm tired of holding on.
I'm tired of dreaming.
I'm tired.
I'm just so overwhelmingly tired.
