Six years. Next month, this poop box turns six. In the blog world, that’s’s like saying I’ve frolicked the internet the same time the stegosaurus did. Oh yes. It’s been a while.
If I am to pick one pleasurable thing out of everything though, it would not be that endless fountain where I found a staggering amount of narcissism prompting me to continue posting stuff about me all these years, but how I managed to find people and keep people around, reading, corresponding, and actually befriending me through this blog. For a litter box, that’s an accomplishment I’d gladly take.
But if you are one of those people who have seen the stegosaurus, you might have noticed a change last year. (Ah, there you go. The light bulb lights. It’s a sappy year-ender post mid-January, highlighting how I wanted to avoid making one for the life of me, but here we are.) I think Derek nailed it when he once commented, for someone who puts up a lot of crap online, I seldom share personal stuff.
Interestingly, this blog falls under the personal category. If you look hard enough, you’ll find embarrassing excerpts out of my college years, or maybe meet my lifetime friends, the ones I’d call in the middle of the night after I committed murder so they can help me hide the body.
But have you seen sensible, personal posts lately, and by lately I mean all year last year?
And now you will know why.
As 2012 ended, I knew something will explode in the new year. I had no evidence except the certainty of a rupture I felt deep down my bones. Oddly, that time, the possibility of soul-crunching change excited me. This enthusiasm I recalled having back then I now suspect for arrogance; can’t be sure.
I remember my words: shit will get real this year.
Oh man, did it.
2013 was an exercise in self-mutilation, a high-octane, high-drama, health-debilitating affair that has left me skinning myself alive with my own hands. Okay, with the help of chosen people around me too. Everything was way over my head, and much as I tried to handle it, it hurt in every way, in every form, and many times, it went on and on I almost snapped. Well, more than the usual.
Truthfully, it’s hard for me to recognize myself. I’m a completely different person. I have seen things, done things, felt things that altered who I am, what I believed in, and what I think of other people. Last year, I have been at my most vulnerable and most cruel; my most ridiculous and most strong; most loving and most hateful. All the most are earned too – it was extreme and it’s a marvel to me, how I’m sitting here typing this in one piece. I was as good as road kill.
It’s seems funny to me now, how people sometimes say a rupture is always welcome and sometimes it is what most people need. Hearing this the first time, I found the idea romantic and mesmerizing. What eluded me was the fact that a rupture only made sense when it is happening to someone else. When it is happening to you, when you are the one suffering day in and day out, believe me, there is nothing grand or logical about it. Plainly, it sucks, and if anyone dares to repeat the mantra to you in a faux-full of wisdom voice, do me a favor and answer, “Fuck you.”
Holy hell. Looking back feels weird. I have so much blood on my chest and on my hands, and maybe some oozing from my ears too, that I often wonder if all that pain was worth it, was worth anything at all for that matter. After hurting myself and altering a huge chunk of the universe, a big part of me is asking, “Now what?”
Yes, I have changed, and I cannot take anything back, and maybe if I have any sense left, I shouldn’t want to. But where does this change take me? What kind of person have I become, or will I become? How am I changed by what I experienced, by what I have done?
So you see, this is why there were no personal posts last year. I was, and probably still to some degree, a mess – and I’m not saying I’m ashamed of it, but I can’t say I’m proud of it either. I, who always knew what I did. I, who was always in control. I, who always planned. I, who always won. Saying all that in past tense sucks btw.
By now, some of you may be thinking, maybe it wasn’t that bad, maybe I’m being too hard on myself. Bless you. Well, alright, yes, I’d like to think I wasn’t all consumingly stupid, but really, it was that bad.
But I guess the bottom line is I am still here. I didn’t kill myself. Hooray.
So what is the take away? What is the moral of the story here? Is there even a point that explains the way life has treated me last year? Maybe there is. Like next time, don’t be an idiot. Or sometimes bad things happen to you because you are an idiot fuck. Yes, these make sense…
But I will tell you what else makes sense. We all make choices and towards the end of 2012, I made an earthquake-inducing choice, a soul wrecking, gut wrenching choice. I made a choice. I wanted change. I needed change. Frankly, I knew it would hurt. I guess what I didn’t anticipate is how much.
Departure. I guess this is my word of last year. I went away, away from everything I know and everything that I am. I decided to take on a journey, albeit a mighty painful one, towards self-discovery, and what I learned is this:
There comes a time in life when you have to leave, to see what is out there outside of what is comfortable, to see what is out there when you are on your own. Maybe this is what growing up is, that burning bush for me. I dared to jump. But just because I took the risk doesn’t mean life has to reward me for being brave. It’s nothing like that at all, I can see that now.
Changing, growing up – it sounds marvelous and mature but it is not pretty or comfortable in the least. It creates wounds, deep ones, and rubs it in even. It hardly has the grace you see in movies or read in books. It hurts. Badly. But that is okay.
Maybe it is worth it.
What I got is a collection of scars, massive ones, and their presence alone tells me I am not the same. But that is okay too because I shouldn’t be the same. My departure took a lot from me but it also gave me memories, realizations, sensations, and dare I say, unprocessed wisdom, and by choice or not, everything is tattooed on my consciousness, on my heart, on my body.
Does that make me a better person?
I don’t know. What I know is I feel enriched and hollowed same time…
But you know what, fuck it. After all is said and done, I will carry all my mangled bits and I will keep going.
I don’t know what happens next but I do know I will win in the end, because I’m damn stubborn enough to refuse to lose. While I can’t confidently say I have changed for the better now, you bet your sweet ass, regardless of the form of verticality, I will get there.