I've been told I'm fragile. I've been told handle with care. I've been told every synonymous word for sensitive in the entire English dictionary. But ironically, no one seems to believe it. Despite all that, I’m expected to be a brick tossed casually around a construction site in hopes of becoming something.
I’m at a café, trying to curb every resounding thought that has triggered an onslaught of anxiety — the kind I can’t even begin to explain the pain of. But let’s take a minute to describe it, shall we? It’s been a while since I’ve written in anger, so I’m going to do just that. I’m going to prove to you how heinous, catatonic, vile, disruptive and ruthless I can be.
Imagine shards of ice-cold glass piercing every inch of skin from the inside out, while simultaneously being at melting-point heat. Feel it slowly sink in, peel off layers of capillaries, pull at your veins and prod its way out while you remain paralysed, watching it happen. Picture yourself staring straight ahead, frightened. Feel your heart ache — swell and squeeze repetitively, over and over and over again — as it tries to make sense of what it even wants to be. Think hot. Feel small. Be estranged. Go detached.
I dissociated for over twenty minutes yesterday during dinner with a few friends. I haven’t felt that way in a while. It felt like my insides were shrinking. I could hear every sound within a one-kilometre radius. It was jarring. My body was on edge, and I truly couldn’t focus on the conversation in front of me. It felt like being fourteen again. It felt like being in my kitchen. It felt like being crowded into with no way out. Once again, I’m told I’m fragile. I’m told handle with care.
I took the day off today. I drove around the city trying to find peace. I don’t know where that is anymore. I hate my mother. I hate that I’m on the run. I hate going back to square one when I fought so hard to grow out of it.
I find it ironic that people have a magnetic sense for finding chaos even when they try so hard to stay away from it. I’m the most irrational person I know when I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know why I guilt-trip myself into being the bad guy when that happens. I know I don’t deserve it.
On days like this, I realise how much of a force to be reckoned with I actually am. It’s like I drive purely on hatred and anger. Like I’m on a mission for vengeance and could burn someone down with a single, clean swoop. I feel like an oxymoron. For every person who calls me complacent, I wonder if they know I’m screaming “Fuck you — think again” in my head, while the chords of every Metallica song play with such magnanimous symphony it could put an orchestra to shame. I honestly don’t know who I’m channelling this rage toward. It’s hilarious.
A café was probably the wrong choice. I’m rolling my eyes at every conversation whose tail-end I catch. It’s like I have some godforsaken superiority complex, and this is my chance to prove everyone is beneath me.
I hate being mislabelled. I truly hate it. I’m not submissive. I’m not passive. I’m not patient. I’m not tolerant. I’m not. I’m not. I AM NOT. I think I react like this the most when I feel threatened with being conformed — when I’m directed to be something expected, something I constructed, something I became because I had to. My whole body goes into red-alert mode, and my emotions refuse to be anyone’s punching bag, metaphorically or not-so-metaphorically.
I cried a little, and the woman beside me asked for a charger. People, I tell you. They are funny.
I’m exhausted. I want to be a burning ball of rage that kills everything in my way. I want to be everything I’m told I’m not. I want to tell my mother to go fuck herself and her problems while she’s at it. One of her biggest problems being me and my choices? Yeah — that can go fuck itself too.
I told a friend not too long ago that I love when she writes with rage. I knew why. But I’m glad it’s my turn now. There’s something deeply pleasing about watching someone finally freak out and curse everyone. It’s like, “Finally, you’re not taking this lying down.” Cue the choir bells. Cue the standing ovation. Cue the Hawaiian surfers with their urge to say, “Fucking gnarly, dude.” Yeah. It’s pretty fucking gnarly.
The woman asked me to move over so she and her boyfriend could have more space. Fuck them, honestly. Discussing your collaborative workout routine isn’t enticing enough for me to give up sofa real estate. What do people say? Yeah — get a room. Literally.
Speaking of “get a room,” that’s rich of me. I’m an exhibitionist. I’m voyeuristic. I’m every derogatory thing you'd see online in the beautiful deep dark web. Why? Because it’s a passion — courtesy of 4chan at the ripe age of thirteen. Like everyone else, apparently. Truly, I’m aware. So, when someone asks me next time, I think I’ll tell them I’m related to Manson.
This started as a vent about misrepresentation. I don’t do well with being critiqued and analysed. I’m a judgemental freak. And I’m now realising I put myself in positions that force me to be the opposite — and then I curse myself for being the opposite, when really, it’s no one’s fault but mine.
Actually no. Fuck that. Today’s mantra is irrational, so it’s everyone’s problem but mine. Screw you.
Oh fucking hell — the woman is now babying her man. “You’ll be fine. It’ll be okay.” Jesus Christ. Deal with it. As my mother says, “Crocodile tears? Again? Grow up.”
And honestly? Maybe I should grow up too — but not today. Today, I get to burn. Today, I get to be loud. Today, I get to go off-tangent, and I get to be everything I’ve been told I couldn’t be. If chaos has a throne, move over. I’m taking my seat.