while most people are sipping eggnog and enjoying family, happily unwrapping presents or sleeping peacefully, i still can not sleep. don’t get me wrong, i’m as dead as a dog and my black eye circles are only deepening, but i just can’t get my head to stop twisting itself in knots. i pride myself in being independent, outspoken, and, allegedly, fearless, but i realized that the reason why i can’t sleep is because i’m so afraid. my fear of disappointment and loneliness have become so ridiculous that it has surpassed my fears of the dark, my mother, and even bugs–those things, at least logic can resolve, but these can only be conquered by vodka, which even i have to realize is kind of an issue.
that pit in your chest. supposedly a thoracic cavity? should not feel like a hole. it should feel full with love and contentedness, and, at the very least, echoes of heartbeats. but i feel empty. there is not an instant when i can enjoy a happy moment for what it is–not because it lacks genuine joy or whatnot, but because i can’t help but remind myself that this happiness will be over, that once you reach a certain level of happiness, nothing can follow but bad, bad things.
there are only four words resounding in my head right now (five if you want to get technical): “i can’t do this.” i can’t leave in 12 days. i can’t move on. i can’t survive three months without my best friends. i can’t spend another year loathing myself because of a boy. i can’t fall in love, not with you, not now. i can’t do this anymore. this whole superwoman, heartless crap, i can’t do that anymore. swallowing bitchiness and spitting out sunshine can’t happen anymore. permitting heated kisses to substitute logical explanations can’t happen anymore.
is insecurity pessimism? sure. if you know you can do something, if you’ve proven to yourself with minimal marginal error that your abilities can achieve something, yet you refuse to accredit yourself, then yes, you are insecure. but when you’re the epitome of a hit-or-miss, how can you be sure of anything?
is it really insecurity, though, to fear being hurt again? humans are programmed to learn from mistakes–if you put your hand into the fire, it’ll scorch and seethe, and you won’t do it again. so why would trusting people be any different? words are just words, after all. why trust someone to grasp a part of your heart if a little piece of you slips through their fingers every time? do you trade the risk of breaking yourself again for the chance of ridding loneliness, or do you opt to protect yourself and forsake the have-beens, what-ifs, and maybes?
to feel hollow, to feel that pit, to remember the words that others unknowingly whip you with–it already hurts, already stings and bleeds. to feel bruised and knocked down, watching those who are happy is bittersweet–it sourly reminds you of what you had, should have, could have had, but reminds you that at least you know one day, everyone smiling will frown, everyone standing will fall. this is not about romance. this is about everything people expect from you–the obedience you owe authorities and parents, the amiability you owe to those around you, the success people anticipate that you will obtain, etcetera. this is about everything you can’t do.
i guess i’m far from fearless. i’m afraid of dedicating my all to one area of my life and completely forsaking the other. i’m afraid of ending up with a fat wallet, seven cats, but no one to kiss me goodnight. i’m afraid to re-learn how i used to love those close to me, in case i can’t deal with their deaths. i’m afraid of being replaced. i’m afraid of heights. the empty air gives me the same droopy feeling. so maybe, for now, i’ll stay sitting on the bottom step looking up, because after another fall, it’ll only be that much harder to pick up my pieces.
merry christmas, all.
