I decided to write a confession session today because I’m well overdue on these and I’m leaving on a school trip this upcoming week. This entry was due last month but, hey, better late than never, right? Such is true in this case, at least.
Last month, or perhaps the month before, I scheduled this confession session to be about something extremely personal. I experienced a sudden change of heart and felt inclined to update you guys on my changed existence. However, acknowledging the fact that it was a sudden and thus impulsive amendment, I figured it would be wiser to hold off on the whole ordeal. It proved beneficial that I didn’t submit anything back then because, looking back, I would be in a lot of trouble right now if I released such information.
Instead, I’ll write about a much more lax topic, one that relates to the past rather than the present and one that has a considerably lesser impact if this information were to get into the wrong hands (if such hands did exist).
For those of you who know me, I’m pretty odd. I have had very evident stages of life. I started out as a quiet girl (or boy, if that makes you more comfortable), and evolved into a very powerful character within the school community. If you knew me from the beginning, you would’ve witnessed the development of me as a person. You’d have seen how one who was once so shy became a very upside down being. You may like me because you like my current self, or maybe you like my past and where I originated from, or maybe you like how easily I change because, trust me, I do change. Or, perhaps, you might not like me at all because I’m just not a person who you could like.
Regardless of whether or not you like me, I don’t hold it too dearly. People come and go. They’re friends one moment and strangers the next. I’m not entirely heartless, but I can say in sooth that I’m not heavily affected by the loss and gain of companions. I know humans are social beings and that we supposedly find comfort in being with people. People are people, no matter the circumstances, so I’m fine with a great variety. If someone escapes my life, nature will work its way to put someone else in.
If you were mine, and I lost you, I would stumble upon another one I can call “you.” The concept of enemies and friends, all these connections, wouldn’t you agree it’s a very... external matter? And because it’s such an outside thing, unworldly forces can easily meddle with this aspect of our lives. What I’m trying to say is that you are out of my control.
At the core of my thoughts, I am alone. And here, readers, is where my confession session really begins.
In a darkened corner, wedged between the crevices of my brain folds (what a ghastly image!), my ghostly self resides. I witness and experience those around and I see them change and I change in response to that. The world is kind sometimes and all things often fall equally well. There are other times, however, where my ghostly self reacts terribly wrong.
Anger and frustration and hopelessness and helplessness; these emotions dwell within my soul and erupt when the meticulously placed lock is busted. What breaks a lock so carefully installed? Why, confusion and misinterpretation and serrated sounds of fault and blame.
(By the way, “serrated sounds of fault and blame” is just my euphuism for being yelled at for crimes that I’m accused for.)
And what can dear me do when my mind is in such turmoil? Well, I... vent. Yes, like I do every so often in my journals, I vent. Sometimes, when it’s convenient, I vent in words. It’s a healthy alternative to what I used to do. Sometimes, I sing songs and play my piano. That’s also another healthy alternative to what I used to do.
When I have an opinion on my anger, I write. I write because I have something to write. I write because I know I’m wrong or I know I’m right. I write because there were things I couldn’t say to my opposition at the time and I write because there were things I couldn’t say to myself at the time. I write because I can.
Sometimes I can’t.
Sitting on my bed, feelings absolutely empty inside, I sing. I sing out of curiosity because what notes can escape from a blank composition? But music finds its way to console me. In fact, I’ve already started three or four songs out of melancholy. However, with my irrational fear of public performance, I can only vent through music when I’m alone.
Seldom do I feel the freedom of being by myself.
Do you want to know what I used to do when I was extremely upset? I still do it now and then, but not nearly as frequently as my past did it. What is it, you might wonder?
Now, for those of you who know me, you should be aware that I suffer from memory impairments. Therefore, when my mood is injured, I tend to forget I was ever depressed. These wretched memories that become lost are recalled every time I’m in a similar state of mind. In other words, when I’m happy, I’m relatively happy. However, when I am sad, I am plagued with the sum of my life’s sorrow up until the day.
I try not to be any less than happy. If that means I have to stock myself with needless work, so be it. Amen, in other words, because doesn’t that just mean “so be it”?
You see, I’m a very dangerous entity, a hostile being, when agitated. I fear one day, I might actually snap and murder someone. I pray such a day never meets me, but who knows?
Have you heard about the power of love? Supposedly, it’s among the strongest forces out there. I, myself, have never experienced such power, neither firsthand nor secondhand, so I just don’t—I just can’t—believe in that nonsensical concept! It’s truly bizarre to me.
I have, however, felt the surge of energy that results from the opposite emotions; fear, frustration, anger, vengeance. Oh, I cannot emphasize that enough! The strength I receive from hell overpowers anything I can think of at the moment. Yes, indubitably, I can steal away lives with that power.
But fear me not, dear readers, for I am always conscious when I am provoked. Because I always know when I’m possessed by evil, I can control the evil. I am unable to contain it, but I can bend it to prevent hurting those around me. After all, I do enough of that without the boost of hatred.
How do I control my demons, you might be wondering? Well, let me tell you a story! I do love stories. I’m more a fan of listening to stories, but telling stories is an interesting challenge.
I don’t remember much of my story, to be completely honest. I don’t remember much of anything, haha. Let me invite you to read what I do remember and hopefully that will be adequate for me to smoothly slide into confessing this entry’s confession.
My family and I were at a mall one day in the past. We were strolling around and visiting different stores and buying various items. I don’t know when this was, or why we went or what specifically we bought.
Now, first off, I’d like to mention that I hate clothes shopping with a passion. I don’t mean to offend anyone who enjoys the sport, but I am not a fan of it myself. I don’t mind buying toys and craft materials, but buying clothes is just... bleh, you know?
I know we were scavenging the mall in pursuit of something relevant to clothes shopping because, of the few things I can’t remember, me being pissed off is not on the list.
Instead of doing the tedious task of looking through clothes racks and attempting to feign interest, I offered to carry bags and such. It’s not rare that I do this because, in my experience, this is the simplest escape from shopping.
It’s not rare and so I’ve had a lot of practice, but somewhere along sitting outside the stores and venturing through the displays of other stores, I failed my only job. I had lost the bags containing the previous purchases of my family. I was shocked at being so... worthless. Shocked, yes, and terribly disappointed.
I wasn’t the only one who harboured ill feelings about the event. My family members seemed pretty upset as well. In fact, through my perspective, I felt a unanimous wave of disgust from my family towards me. The horror washed through me not only in my mind, but through my ears as well.
They scolded me, dear readers. I can’t handle that. I never could, still can’t, and will never be able to. It’s impossible for me to calmly deal with such a situation.
I can’t remember if I was looking up to hold back my tears from falling or if I was looking down to hide the tears that have already fallen. I just remember I tried not to visually focus on anything. Inside me, I housed a spirit of rebellion fuelled by my unsettled fear. I had that damned power, that hellish strength that I promise is capable of murdering.
Family was family. Family is family. I couldn’t hurt my own kin. Again, I never could, still can’t, and will never be able to. But the beast inside me needed to inflict pain! It needed to express itself and its emotion through my flesh and bones.
My literal flesh and bones, that is.
You see, being the kind little angel (do catch the sarcasm) that I am, I didn’t dare snap at my family. Instead, I absorbed their angry words quietly, all the while holding my hands.
Haha, yes, I was holding my own hands and giving myself moral support. That, and I needed to spend my itching muscles.
Basically, I was digging my nails into my skin. The more I was yelled at, the harder I dug my nails in. Deeper and deeper my nails went, but never did I feel it.
It’s rather odd, dear readers. When my mood ventures below a certain point, I can’t feel anything. Honestly, my receptors become numb and I turn into a wooden doll; a humanoid figure lacking feelings.
Eventually, we did find the missing bag. Turns out I had left it on a bench while waiting outside a store for my family. Some kind stranger found it and returned it to the store we bought it from. The cashier of the store recognized us immediately and gave us our bag. It was a generally happy ending.
Happy, yes, but I sometimes forget that despite not being able to feel pain, pain can very well still be dealt. The back of my left hand had on it several lines, about three or four. Apparently, while digging my nails into my hand, they not only dug deeper, but the slide across farther. I was peeling my own skin off.
One nail trail in particular took especially long to heal. I actually thought it was a scar! It stayed with me for over half a year, just a light line on the back of my left hand. It was a beautiful scar, dear readers, not in appearance but in meaning. It was a constant reminder of how shameful I can be and it encouraged me to be happier and more forgiving of myself.
It hurt, though. When we returned home from the mall, I had to get a bandage. I wore a bandage for several days before letting my prized scar see the light of day. It’s gone now. The “scar” is invisible to the eyes of the world, but I still see it. I still know where it rests. I might not be there in reality, but it’s there in here. *points to head*
Since this incident, I figured physical wounds aren’t worth it. Those who participate in self harm, I sincerely pity them. I thought that, like me, they can’t feel pain when they’re sad. I thought that their depression was pain enough, but I was wrong.
I learned that I’m an oddball when it comes to physical sensory. When I get sick, I also lose my sense of touch. I thought that was normal, but nope.
And self harmers? They do feel pain! I don’t believe I’m in the position to elaborate, but I know they feel pain. I just want to... give everyone a bandage. I can’t give hugs, but bandages from me are free.
I try to not dig my nails into my skin anymore.
There was one time where I was extremely pissed off. I was in church and was sinfully filled with contempt for reasons I don’t wish to share. Anyhow, I didn’t want another scar (because at the time, my hand scar hadn’t healed) so instead of digging my nails into my skin, I repeatedly and harshly slid my nail across the side of my left pointing finger. I ended up giving myself a blister. Good job, Lucia, eh? Haha, oh, how senseless I become when pissed.
Nowadays, I have a new method of spending this cursed strength when I’m provoked. It’s quite strange, I think, but not too bizarre that one would question me... I think.
Basically, rather than inflicting wounds upon myself, I do some form of exercise. For example, chin-ups or push-ups are my typically go-to activity. With all this power, I find I’m more capable of doing strenuous tasks. I normally can’t do chin-ups without a slight jump boost, but when I’m raged, I could do a whole bunch without any help.
And I suppose that’s my confession: When filled with evil, I exhaust the surge with physical activities.
Hm... I believe that’s all I have to say for now regarding this confession. I’ll go read a bit and head off to sleep. Anyhow, I’ll see you all next entry~!
Today’s lyrics are:
Reaching, always reaching
Never reaching solid ground
Seeking, always seeking
Never seeking what I've found
I really like this song. The way the artist delivers the music is just... so... oof! It’s wonderful, truly. Comment below the artist and song title and a reward shall be granted! Or just comment anything. Feedback is always appreciated. Mkay, I’m going to go now. Bye byes~! yum_puddi
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