As I was talking to ern today, a disturbing point came up in our conversation. He mentioned that as he read my blog, he realised that he didn't know me as well as he previously thought he did, perhaps even to the extent of not knowing me at all. It was as if there was a case of mistaken identity, that I had assumed someone else's personality, or that I was unconsciously schizophrenic.
This is an issue that I have been struggling with all my life, but have never sought to deal with it face-to-face. Life is one big farcical delusion, and oftentimes it is enough just to get by without really dealing with the inherent problems in one's life - you just have to escape from it on a daily basis, and soon voila! You will not even begin to notice the cracks that are waiting to burst open the floodgates. Just as the pleas of one's moral consciousness softens and fades away into the far distance, over time, one blind eye transforms into two, and inevitably all the other senses follow. Can a body thereby sustain itself without feeling? Can one really LIVE without senses? The tongue is parched and dry, the lips are cracked. The eyes caked with mud and are unable to open. The ears are deafened by the heaps of rotten wool stuffed into the earhole. The nose is choked with many lifetimes' supply of noseshit and the whatnot rubbish that is in the air we breathe. The skin is calloused and hardened, no longer sensitive to the touch of a fellow human being. The danger of this, then, is that when the floodgates DO open, the structure of your entire world as you know it comes crashing down upon you in a blink of an eye. *blink* and there it goes.
The reason why I'm indulging myself in ramblings like these, is actually just to say that I have been guilty of all that and more. I'd rather escape than to confront, and in so doing, I shortchange myself somewhat, leading an okay life instead of the fantastic life I could have had by being true to myself. I'm now about to go through a cathartic process, in the hope that others will begin to understand more than I can ever profess to, about the warped creature striped bare for self-scrutiny now. Being a person who does not take easily to physical demonstrations of love or deep emotion, I find it thus much simpler to explain myself through the written medium, where I can take as much time as I need to phrase what I really mean and feel, where I can reflect on what I'm experiencing and be able to analyse from a detached objective point of view. But yet, I get confused and I push on, feeling my way through the darkness of one who has lost his sight.
I've come to realise that no matter how outwardly happy I seem most of the time, melancholy is deeply rooted within the murky depths of my spirit, never ceasing to cast a shadow over the present that I go through. I used to think that the happy and fun and oftentimes bimbotic jan was a superficial persona, that it was all just a show for the benefit of others, to relate to people and to make friends and be popular at school. Melacholic jan prone to sudden bouts of depression and self-doubt, (with frequent onsets of mood-swings and a hidden mean streak flashing its fanged teeth occasionally), was who I sought to keep under wraps, like Dr Jekyll contained Mr Hyde. Growing up was a pain in the ass; no one understood or sought to understand. I often felt that friends would leave me once I stopped laughing, or being the most popular girl in school. This is not to say that I haven't had my fair share of good times, because I most definitely have. It's just that it difficult really, trying to come to terms with the different facets of one's personality, and to be confident enough to believe that others around will be able to accept me for who I am, whether happy or sad, rich or poor, fun-loving or boring. Is it possible to be an onioned bimbo? Where bimbotism occurs on many levels, and as each layer of skin is peeled off, what remains at the very end is not bimbotism in its purest, but a need for intellectualism to provide a balance, albeit a precarious one.
Looking back, it was possibly fear that caused me to build up protective fortress walls for self-preservation. I never let anyone come close enough to get a good enough glimpse of the vulnerabilities and insecurites that comprise me. It really isn't a conscious act of drawing away, but these feely-feely things creep up unwittingly. Much akin to how shit happens when shit happens. I can't explain it away because it just occurs when it does.
The overtures of replusion for the irksome eccentricities of a close one that proceeds to grate on one's fraying nerves like a needle stuck to one's anus. Neglible but yet completely intolerable.
The jan of today, however, now embraces both sides of her personality, and this blog has a lot to do with it. I am both easy-going and difficult to be with all at once, I'm bubbly and depressed at the same time, I'm generally nice and yet I have a propensity to be mean. If you're thinking right now that jan's blog is just another one of those pretentious 'act-cheem' kind of blogs, you're both right and wrong. Maybe I AM just being who I am, showing a flipside to my sunny personality that has no other outlet except through words, and maybe I just am pretentious and I enjoy being so. Period.
Nothing's going to change after this blog, no one's going to treat me any differently. In order to find my belonging, I first have to learn to accept myself. Love me, hate me or do both, this is me and no one else.
To those that I have distanced myself from, be it in the past or present,
And to those I have hurt,
Forgive me,
Accept me,
And let time change me.
To ern: Thanks for allowing me to be who I am.
