I’m trying to remember the last time I felt this kind of anxiety, this kind nausea at the thought of going somewhere. I guess it was a couple of days before I actually resigned. It was a couple of days of torment.

And here it is again. The thought of going back. The thought of going. It feels so much like dread. So much like fear. It’s making me sick and not the figurative kind.

But I have to face this. Because if I run, I’ll be running away and toward the same thing again. It will never end. So I have to stay. I have to live in the dread of the moment. The constant desire to break down.

It’s been a long time since I last wanted to punch a wall. And I almost punched one a few weeks ago.

I guess that wall and I would have to be best friends for now.


Heights and Sighs

Something’s changing. Something always is.

Today I looked out of the window of our plane and realized one very obvious fact: we were so high up. Know this: I have been riding planes since I was, what, five? I know that I have a very slight fear of heights, but I’ve never been afraid of heights when inside a plane.

Today I was afraid. The hand-sweating, feet-tingling kind of fear. A fear of lost control. And I guess that’s what’s been happening. That pretty much sums up what’s going on with me the past few days.

I’m sad. And that’s an understatement. And while I’m writing this in a plane headed somewhere I thought I could escape, I am fighting back the tears that threaten to embarass me in front of a box full of people. Gosh darn it I’m sad, I tell you.

The thing is, people are always sad. Somehow. Deep inside. But we don’t see that. We see rebellion. We see pride and self-importance. We see someone fighting the norms of society. We don’t see someone fighting to keep control of the life that once seemed in order.

So that’s it. Things are changing. Things are always changing, spinning in and out of control. There is no way to control things. There is no way to stay the same. There is no way to fight the fear.

One can only hope.

You’re always you, and that don’t change, and you’re always changing, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

(Mother Slaughter, The Graveyard Book)

I’m Not Gonna Write You a Love Letter

I realized that my desire for you to write me a love letter is unfounded. I realized that this desire is an act of selfishness, imposing on you what I want you to feel for me. I realized that by asking for one, I would lose the essence of the letter itself. So I too will not write you a love letter.

I realized that I may want to someday write you a love letter. And the sweetest letter I can think of right now will be the wedding vows we may be required to write someday. Therefore, I will not write you a love letter now.

I will control myself from expressing my emotions on paper for mainly two things. The first is that I want my first love letter to you to be special, to be the truth, to express my deepest desire to love you truly and not just mere flattery. I want you to know that every word that I write is right from my heart and that I mean them sincerely. I mean them and I will promise them to God and the witnesses at our wedding. I will write you that love letter to let the world know, just as we are baptized publicly to declare Jesus in our lives, that I love you.

I will control myself from expressing my emotions on paper for one other important thing: I do not know if I will someday walk toward you to the altar. I know this is alarming, and I know I should not even think this, but I think this is appropriate. Just as you try to avoid the topic of yourself writing a love letter, I believe that I should think the same. Maybe you are reserving that love letter for our wedding. Maybe you just don’t want to write. But I am reserving my love letter in the unfortunate event that I may be writing it for the wrong person. I’m sorry. At this point, I guess there are no certainties. There are no final decisions, and nothing is set in stone. Anything can change even if we don’t want it to change. So I won’t write you that love letter.

Someday, I hope you will get to read what I planned to write. Someday, I hope it will be you that I write the love letter to. Someday, I hope that I will get to see your face as I read to you and to the world the words that I have reserved for you, the words that promise me to you forever, because I love you.

Someday, I will write you a love letter.


Photo from here

I know stalemate is a chess term and the picture here actually depicts a gridlock, but this is how I imagine stalemate.

For knowledge purposes, here are their definitions:

Stalemate (noun)

“a situation in which further action or progress by opposing or competing parties seem impossible”

Gridlock (noun)

“a traffic jam affecting a whole network of intersecting streets”

which is another term for a new word I kind of like:

Deadlock (noun)

“a situation, typically one involving opposing parties, in which no progress can be made”

Now why have I chosen to talk about stalemates? Because that’s how it feels now. Nothing anyone can say can make any difference.

Here’s the situation:

You know how when someone older than you, someone you respect very much, does something you’d think they’d already know not to do tells you that they don’t know what to do because they’re doing exactly what they said one shouldn’t do? That’s how it feels.

It’s like telling someone not to do something you’re already doing. The stalemate here is that I can’t say anything about it.

The situation is very disconcerting because we’ve all been here before. It’s like an “I told you so” moment that nobody wants to declare. It’s kind of disappointing. I want to tell her off, tell her that she should already know this, already be aware of the dangers of denying what she already knows. It’s like she’s purposely going through this when she knows she could have avoided it. I don’t understand how one can be so blind.

But what’s even more sad is that I can’t exactly tell her that. I can’t because who am I to talk about blindness? Who am I to talk about denying things that could have been avoided?

I am no one. And this is the stalemate.

You have the solution but you can’t share it because you didn’t use that solution or you know that other person already knows about it. And it becomes ever so frustrating that you end up just not talking about it. Ignoring it. Eventually ignoring the whole relationship. Eventually ignoring each other.

That’s the stalemate. That’s the deadlock.

When I Spotify

I get scared. I mean I get freaked out. And it scares me.

When I listen to songs in Spotify, when I try to update myself with the latest in music hits, I get this weird feeling that eats at me, and it scares me.

When I listen to songs in Spotify, it feels like I’m standing outside while storm clouds roll through the sky, slowly turning a bright day gray. It feels like standing outside and staring at the storm clouds, waiting for it to rain, waiting if it will rain. And I’ve stood on the sidewalk outside for so long before that I should know better. So I run inside and hide in the shelter that is my house.

It’s not that I don’t like Spotify. It’s just that I spent a significant season in my life listening to it. And when I remember that time, it draws me in again, and I don’t want to go back.

What it feels like when I listen to it? I feel like everything becomes fuzzy. I know, you can’t feel fuzzy. But I can. I guess it’s like deja vouz. It’s like everything feels familiar in a very scary way.

What’s scary is that as much as I want to avoid going back, part of me wants it. Part of me wants to run back to that time when I lived mostly in my room, trying to understand what’s wrong with me but at the same time enjoying the silence, enjoying the fact that I will never understand what’s wrong with me. Part of me wants to become that person again.

But I know I shouldn’t. I guess I shouldn’t.



If Past Is Past

If past is past
shouldn’t we stop talking about this?
Shouldn’t we forget about it?
Shouldn’t we just let it go?

If past is past
don’t you think it’s time to move on?
Don’t you think discussing it is just a waste of time?
That even thinking about it proves that past is not past?

If past is past
then don’t remind me of it.
Don’t bring it up in conversations when we promised to be honest to each other.
Don’t blame me of what I’ve done.
Don’t accuse me of what you think I am,
what you think I used to be.

If past is past
then we should walk away now.
Why try to keep this going?
All you want to know is how different I am.

You say past is past
but you tell me it’s all wrong.
How righteous you are to be so good,
how proud of your past you are.

You say past is past
but you keep pulling me back,
back to times I don’t want to remember,
back to times I wish I could change.

If past is past
then what you’re doing is wrong.
What you’re doing is killing me,
destroying everything we’ve been trying to build.
What you’re doing is squeezing me into a corner
and letting me go through everything I want to escape from.

If past is past
then why do I still feel this way?
Why am I so angry at what you’re making me go through?
Why am I so hurt when I think of how different we are?
Why am I so desperate to let this all go?

If past is past
can we just forget about it?
Can we just move on?
Can we just pretend that we’re okay?

If past is past
can you love me now for what I am?
For what I’ve been through?

If past is past
will you now accept me?
Can you forgive me?
Will you take me back?