For the memories

Sheylara

Exciting times! I have decided to stop being depressed.

But I was being flippant. I don’t decide depression; it decides me. Recently, after months and months of hounding me, it decided to take a break. One day, depression just up and scarpered off on a holiday or something, I don’t know. I hope it gets lost, or kidnapped, or dies of old age, or something, and never comes back.

Anyway, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, which is not new. I’ve been thinking too much since I was old enough to, and it’s not a good thing because I can’t ever decide on anything when I can make equally convincing arguments for all sides. This explains why I’ve had so many failed restarts in blogging in the last few years — I keep changing my mind. Also explains why I’m thirty-two kinds of strange.

But never mind all that. What’s significant is that the latest think dictated I must blog again because I’m losing memories. The last few years of my life amount to a series of blank pages because I’d failed to document all the highlights, like I’d done between 2003 and 2013-ish. As a matter of fact, my life before blogging is a lot of blank pages, as well.

That makes me sad. I need to save more memories. We all do!

So, I am now determined to start documenting again, pretending my life is really cool and everything, in millennial fashion, when, in reality, all I do is stay home and obsess over my sad obsessions. But 100-year-old me won’t remember that when I look back on my blogs with nostalgic fondness. All I’ll see and remember is that I was pretty cool. And that’s pretty cool.

In other news, I have a new obsession. It’s desk-bound and rather time-consuming so, I actually don’t know I will have any time left to get up to cool stuff, much less blog about them. But I can blog about my obsession, can’t I? Ooh. Aren’t you so very excited to read all about it?

She said self-deprecatingly.

Let me put it into words

There is a certain stuckness in me.

I keep saying I will blog. Then I sit at my computer and start playing Cafe World. I play some songs on YouTube. I plurk a bit.

Every few minutes, I will feel a sensation at the edge of my mind. I try to ignore it, shut it out, but it occasionally breaks through the barrier and screams, “BLOG!”

I freeze.

And freeze.

For minutes. Maybe hours. Time becomes meaningless, anyway.

Then I blink and go back to Cafe World, Youtube, Plurk.

It seems my mind refuses to process anything real.

Because real is painful.

There are many little delights in life, sure. Like butter on hot toast. Or a baby’s smile. Whatever you’re into. But there are even more horrors and they crowd out the little delights. The horrors are the ones that shamelessly demand attention and, in trying to combat them, you become dysfunctional for a time.

Sometimes, for a long time.

I wish I could say what bothers me, but I can’t find a starting point.

The horrors are the things in life that cause you pain, make you sad, render you defenceless.

When you allow one horror to surface in your mind, it opens a portal through which all the other million horrors pour through unrelentingly. They kind of crowd your brain out so you see nothing but blackness. It is so overwhelming that you can’t even begin to describe what’s happening in your mind.

You can only freeze and wait.

After some time, the horrors get bored and they go home. But not all of them. Some of them are overstayers. They chip at your little delights all day (as if you had any left in the first place) and make diabolical noises, just to piss you off a bit (as if you needed any more pissing off).

But these are the inconsequential horrors, minor annoyances you have to learn to put up with. The big ones have gone home temporarily but you know they’ll come back again for a visit with no warning. And soon.

All your life, you’re fighting to banish the little ones and seal the portal against the big ones. You know that nothing short of an apocalypse can ever destroy them for good. But there is nothing else you can do in the meantime. Only fight.

It’s when you’re fighting that you develop a certain stuckness. Perhaps a blankness. Because you can’t really multi-task that good and you have to channel all your energies into fighting or blocking out. In either case, you become dysfunctional.

Ergo, stuckness.

I want to kill myself but I’m too lazy (PG)

So, I was lying in bed for three hours, thinking about killing myself.

But it’s so much work and I’m too lazy.

I’m always thinking of effective ways to die. But suicide is either too painful or too troublesome, you know?

Throw myself at a speeding car? Not foolproof and could be bloody.

Lie on the road and wait for a vehicle to run over me? That’s gross. Innards flying all over. Severed limbs.

Jump into an MRT track? SMRT staff will curse me for eternity for giving them yet another mess to clean up.

Jump off a tall building? Too inconsiderate. Think of the people who have to clean up and the witnesses who will be traumatised for life.

Cut myself, stab myself, club myself? Too personal.

Overdose on panadol? Not foolproof and the nausea is worse than dying.

Carbon monoxide poisoning? Not sure how to rig it. Too troublesome.

Gas poisoning? I don’t live alone.

There is no good way at all to kill oneself.

The thought of having to plan a good suicide and actually getting up to do it makes me feel tired already. It’s not fun and I don’t like doing not-fun things.

And then, there are the moral aspects.

I don’t want to hurt the people I love who love me.

But I wonder.

How many people will grieve over my death?

I mean truly grieve. I don’t mean like, “Aw, such a pity she’s dead. How sad, I think I’ll miss her.” That’s bullshit. I mean grieve as in feel the pain of loss, the pain like a hole cut out of your heart that will never heal.

How many people will actually feel pained over the cessation of my existence?

I don’t know. I’m thinking maybe a handful, like family. Even then, I don’t see why they should even feel it. I don’t think I value-add anyone’s life. Not a one. Yes, I know I have family who loves me. But I don’t do shit for them. Nobody depends on me for anything. I can be gone and the value of their lives won’t change.

Well, sure, I know there are people who think I’m beautiful and talented and that my death would be a bloody waste. But I don’t think they will really grieve, you know? Maybe they’ll feel sad about it for a while because that’s human compassion, but I don’t think my death will cripple them or pain them.

Maybe a few people will blog about my death because it’s good blogging fodder, and they will say things like, “Oh, how sad, what a waste, I’ll miss reading her blog,” or “What a stupid bitch, good riddance.” But I don’t think they will really grieve. They will move on and, tomorrow, they will blog about monkeys in the desert.

My existence doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things so it’s not such a bad thing if I killed myself, is it?

Still, I can’t do it on the off-chance that there are actually people who will grieve.

Now, I know because this post talks about death and suicide, some of you will feel compelled to give me your two cents.

“Don’t kill yourself. It’s not worth it.”

“Don’t be a coward.”

“Life is beautiful. Embrace it, don’t lose it.”

“If u kill you’reself your goin strait to hell becuz god sez so its a sin.”

“can i hav all ur stuff????!!!11!!!!one1!!”

Don’t.

Because, firstly, I’m not going to kill myself. Duh.

Secondly, those words are meaningless. They’re obnoxious and insensitive. I don’t think anyone has the right to tell someone not to kill themselves, especially without having lived in that person’s shoes.

Sure, you can tell me not to. But then be prepared to shoulder all my burdens. Solve all my problems. Soothe all my pain. Give me money.

If you’re not prepared to do any of that, what right do you have to tell anyone not to die? Talk is cheap.

The only people who have the right are parents. “I fucking spent hundreds of thousands of dollars and zillions of hours of my life raising you to this point, you little shit. So you’d better not just up and throw it away on a whim, dammit!”

And then, there’s the aftermath to consider. I mean afterlife (or lack thereof).

Lack would be good. Then death would be a clean end to everything.

But life isn’t easy. I have no reason to believe that death would be any easier.

What if I became a restless ghost doomed for eternity to be bound to the very spot where I chose to take my own life?

That’s a really scary thought. I don’t want to hang out at the same bloody spot for eternity and have stupid humans walk through me or sit on me and I can’t scream at them because they can’t hear me or see me.

Even if they could feel my presence, I’m sure haunting people will get old after a while.

What if I got reincarnated as a cockroach as punishment for suicide? Well, cockroaches have really short lifespans so I guess it’s not too big a problem. But what if I keep getting reincarnated as a cockroach for eternity?

What if there’s really a hell?

What if death is worse than life?

Well, there are too many things to consider. Suicide is so troublesome and has so many consequences. I guess I won’t be doing it any time soon. I’m not free today, anyway. I have tons of work to do.

I guess it’ll have to wait.

Fuck the title

I don’t want to whine about my life.

I started blogging years back because I like writing funny stuff and I want to make people laugh.

Of course, I do talk about my career woes, but that’s just to share the gritty side of showbiz that most people outside the industry don’t get to see.

Other than that, I try to write only happy, funny things.

The sad, angry things I leave for my personal diary.

In recent times, unfortunately, it seems like someone has stolen the funnies section of my life.

But, still, I don’t want to whine.

The poem I wrote is one way to update my blog and still express myself without whining (I hope).

Forgive me if I seem distant to well-wishers. I do appreciate the concern.

I don’t like to whine and I don’t talk about my troubles because I don’t have any grand illusion that my troubles are any more important than your troubles.

Everyone has troubles. Nobody wants to hear mine. That’s my theory, anyway.

Besides, troubles are usually compounded and go way back to when one is, like, three years old. How can anyone give an accurate picture of their troubles without providing all the background? That’s why people who see psychiatrists see them for years and years. They have to start from the very beginning.

(But I don’t believe in paying money to have someone hear me yak about how sad I am two times a week, the least of which reason being that I don’t have the freaking moolah anyway. It would serve me better to just write a damn autobiography and maybe make a few dollars out of it.)

So.

I’m trying to blot out ignore cover my eyes see no evil hear no evil fuck off the damnable ache that’s grinding in my heart grinding it down to nothing.

I want to start writing stupid, funny stuff again, regardlesss of how I feel.

Who the fuck cares lah.

Sorry for the disruption to our service. We will be back with you shortly.

And here’s a random picture from my pictures archive because too much text is boring.


Screenshot from Star Wars Galaxies

(That, by the way, is the “toaster droid” I was talking about in a previous post. It got killed by a stupid frog I was trying to kill.)