Thursday, 3 March 2011
Rambles Shambles
Maybe I have been a little slow to come to this realisation, but I think I know why bad emotions inspire me to write so much more than good ones. The things is, like with any other bad element, be it a virus or a pest, we instinctively react to remove them. And when we just allow them to fester in (or around) us, they just end up killing us. The same, I believe, apply to negative emotions.
My psyche is programmed to eradicate bad emotions just as my immune system deals with viruses. They have to go, one way or another. Our bodies know (sometimes better than us) what’s bad for us and they push us to do the right thing. Because feelings are more subjective than say a pest, we should listen more closely to our inner self to find out which are good and which are eating us from the inside, and deal with them appropriately. Just as the cause is subjective, so is the treatment. It may differ due to personal preference but yours truly here has always favoured a way to deal with them (when I’m not attempting to suppress them to the lowest bowels of hell): Writing and releasing them.
It makes sense if one thinks about it; we all try to hold on to those precious, gloriously joyful moments and we want to care less about the bad memories we hold. If only our brains could be organised like a computer, and we could dump those horrible memories in the recycle bin (or trash), and permanently delete them. Boy, would we be cool androids?
But I digress...
I am here today not to discuss why I write mostly when I have experience something negative nor to convince you that it would be awesome to be an android, I am here today to once again record and vent the hurt in my soul in attempts to release it from my captive, as it is merely feelings and memories I hold on to and not the other way around.
In this life, I have terribly many things to be thankful of and I am sincerely grateful for having been given the life I lead which has been relatively free from suffering and abuse. I have a loving family (which drives me up the wall), I have great friends (who care more about me than I could possibly them) and more specifically (for this article), I have been given the opportunity to study abroad without having to pay tuition. This is my third and final year into my bachelor degree, and it has been wonderful (with its fair share of ups and downs).
Before I began my third year (this past Monday), I had the chance to go back to my home for slightly over a month. Naturally, I was thrilled. I was carefree and generally happy with the time I spent with those I cared about most. There were, of course, instances where I am not proud of how I felt (like I was an angsty teenager again) but I hope those instances were brief.
More importantly, I hope my mother had a pleasant month having me home (after all she did take a month off when I was around). I will be the first to admit that I was (and still am) not an easy child to care for, but I truly believe my mum did a most spectacular job and for that, I owe her my life and successes. I hope the brief time we got to spend together, especially with our daily evening jogs (which I blamed for my constantly sore legs), helped make things up to her for not having one of her children around for most, if not all, of the year, and who does not keep in contact (besides the emailing) nearly enough. This may be my fault, but I cannot bear to show such feelings with her as I would only pain the both of us, especially me, more.
Naturally, at this very moment, I am feeling rather homesick but I am better compared to when I just got back here, or when I realised how rude I was when they (my family) were sending me off. I practically rushed them out of the airport. That was a definite low point (out of the many troughs)...
This feeling has been gnawing at my inner self particularly hard since the few days before I was meant to fly off. It has kept me up awake (and still is) for many nights, and I remember the worst was the day just before when I spend hours tossing and turning, and staring at my ceiling and the room I was about to never see again for at least another 12 months. The four ceiling pieces (I don’t know what they are called) plus a bit, the ridiculous salt crystal lamp my mum puts in my room, the grilled windows which failed so miserably at keeping me in, the various cupboards I helped fix up, my collection of various manga’s and the bed I’ve slept in for umpteen nights which no longer felt like it was mine. Actually, everything just made me feel like I no longer belong there, in my own room, my personal sanctuary...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Now, I am back in my rented room, living in a place I’d never thought I’d be, and slipping back into the routines of my studies and work only to (slowly) realise that there was still something not quite right. Perhaps I should thank the routine-ness of my life here that I could have been done as if on autopilot to help me come to that realisation sooner. I found I was not concentrating as much as I did in my studies, and with work resuming tomorrow, I wanted to attempt to remedy the situation and be that productive person I’d come to developed some pride in being.
I realised I had not properly dealt with my feelings of what the general public would call homesickness, although those who’ve been through it would tell you that a single word could never be adequate in fully describing the agony. I may have cried, I may have wallowed, but I have not healed. This odd longing for the familiar faces and life would seem irrational or even insane if looked at rationally, but the heart is not known to be rational.
It should have gotten easier with time and if you told me that last year, I would have agreed with you. Last year was definitely much better than my first year abroad. However, the same could not be repeated for this year as I found myself unable to turn away from the tight grips of hollowed sadness in my heart. I felt (for the first two days at least) that my whole being was being sucked into the black hole where my heart should have been. My mind was scattered like it was blown through by a close range revolver,... and still is, judging by how hard is it for me to continue on this post.
I wish this was all make-believe, that I was writing this as a fictional tale to myself and whoever else that chooses to read this. At least that way I could concoct an ending to this misery; an elegant bow to tie around the box; that finishing conclusion that instantly transforms the horrible tale of tragic and grim to one of hope and joyfulness. Alas, it is not... I am merely detailing what recently broke my heart struggling to keep it in and I have yet been able to mend it. Only time will tell what becomes of this...
My psyche is programmed to eradicate bad emotions just as my immune system deals with viruses. They have to go, one way or another. Our bodies know (sometimes better than us) what’s bad for us and they push us to do the right thing. Because feelings are more subjective than say a pest, we should listen more closely to our inner self to find out which are good and which are eating us from the inside, and deal with them appropriately. Just as the cause is subjective, so is the treatment. It may differ due to personal preference but yours truly here has always favoured a way to deal with them (when I’m not attempting to suppress them to the lowest bowels of hell): Writing and releasing them.
It makes sense if one thinks about it; we all try to hold on to those precious, gloriously joyful moments and we want to care less about the bad memories we hold. If only our brains could be organised like a computer, and we could dump those horrible memories in the recycle bin (or trash), and permanently delete them. Boy, would we be cool androids?
But I digress...
I am here today not to discuss why I write mostly when I have experience something negative nor to convince you that it would be awesome to be an android, I am here today to once again record and vent the hurt in my soul in attempts to release it from my captive, as it is merely feelings and memories I hold on to and not the other way around.
In this life, I have terribly many things to be thankful of and I am sincerely grateful for having been given the life I lead which has been relatively free from suffering and abuse. I have a loving family (which drives me up the wall), I have great friends (who care more about me than I could possibly them) and more specifically (for this article), I have been given the opportunity to study abroad without having to pay tuition. This is my third and final year into my bachelor degree, and it has been wonderful (with its fair share of ups and downs).
Before I began my third year (this past Monday), I had the chance to go back to my home for slightly over a month. Naturally, I was thrilled. I was carefree and generally happy with the time I spent with those I cared about most. There were, of course, instances where I am not proud of how I felt (like I was an angsty teenager again) but I hope those instances were brief.
More importantly, I hope my mother had a pleasant month having me home (after all she did take a month off when I was around). I will be the first to admit that I was (and still am) not an easy child to care for, but I truly believe my mum did a most spectacular job and for that, I owe her my life and successes. I hope the brief time we got to spend together, especially with our daily evening jogs (which I blamed for my constantly sore legs), helped make things up to her for not having one of her children around for most, if not all, of the year, and who does not keep in contact (besides the emailing) nearly enough. This may be my fault, but I cannot bear to show such feelings with her as I would only pain the both of us, especially me, more.
Naturally, at this very moment, I am feeling rather homesick but I am better compared to when I just got back here, or when I realised how rude I was when they (my family) were sending me off. I practically rushed them out of the airport. That was a definite low point (out of the many troughs)...
This feeling has been gnawing at my inner self particularly hard since the few days before I was meant to fly off. It has kept me up awake (and still is) for many nights, and I remember the worst was the day just before when I spend hours tossing and turning, and staring at my ceiling and the room I was about to never see again for at least another 12 months. The four ceiling pieces (I don’t know what they are called) plus a bit, the ridiculous salt crystal lamp my mum puts in my room, the grilled windows which failed so miserably at keeping me in, the various cupboards I helped fix up, my collection of various manga’s and the bed I’ve slept in for umpteen nights which no longer felt like it was mine. Actually, everything just made me feel like I no longer belong there, in my own room, my personal sanctuary...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Now, I am back in my rented room, living in a place I’d never thought I’d be, and slipping back into the routines of my studies and work only to (slowly) realise that there was still something not quite right. Perhaps I should thank the routine-ness of my life here that I could have been done as if on autopilot to help me come to that realisation sooner. I found I was not concentrating as much as I did in my studies, and with work resuming tomorrow, I wanted to attempt to remedy the situation and be that productive person I’d come to developed some pride in being.
I realised I had not properly dealt with my feelings of what the general public would call homesickness, although those who’ve been through it would tell you that a single word could never be adequate in fully describing the agony. I may have cried, I may have wallowed, but I have not healed. This odd longing for the familiar faces and life would seem irrational or even insane if looked at rationally, but the heart is not known to be rational.
It should have gotten easier with time and if you told me that last year, I would have agreed with you. Last year was definitely much better than my first year abroad. However, the same could not be repeated for this year as I found myself unable to turn away from the tight grips of hollowed sadness in my heart. I felt (for the first two days at least) that my whole being was being sucked into the black hole where my heart should have been. My mind was scattered like it was blown through by a close range revolver,... and still is, judging by how hard is it for me to continue on this post.
I wish this was all make-believe, that I was writing this as a fictional tale to myself and whoever else that chooses to read this. At least that way I could concoct an ending to this misery; an elegant bow to tie around the box; that finishing conclusion that instantly transforms the horrible tale of tragic and grim to one of hope and joyfulness. Alas, it is not... I am merely detailing what recently broke my heart struggling to keep it in and I have yet been able to mend it. Only time will tell what becomes of this...
Monkey J
23:56
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23:56
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