Nothing I do is right
Nothing I do is right…nothing…
If I find the situation serious enough to warrant a lesson to be taught, she says I am too strict, I cannot measure his intelligence that with a normal person.
If I find the situation somewhat too serious and try to negate the tension by making things light and laugh about it, she says I am not sensitive to his feelings.
I don’t know what to do now… do this is wrong, do that is equally wrong, if not, more so. I seriously don’t know how to act anymore… and they wonder why I’m weird and have weird behaviours and mannerisms… It is precisely this kind of contradictory behaviour that gets me confused and I don’t know how to behave with outsiders… sigh…
True, I don’t understand my brother enough, nor am I understanding towards him enough. But that doesn’t mean that I am intentionally cruel to him. Sometimes I say or do the wrong things, I acknowledge that. But when I am not, and I try to make things lighter, less serious and heated, why does she turn around and say that I am insensitive? I was not!
And now I have to grovel and apologise for something that I sincerely didn’t think I did wrong…
“I am surprised at you, that you would laugh at your brother.” She said. “You should not laugh and make him feel bad, as a sister, I am surprised at you.”
I laughed because it was amusing and it was not that dire an error that he made. It was not so serious that he needed to be corrected in a serious manner. It wasn’t necessary.
“You can be so nice to other people, when you laugh at your own brother. You’re such a hypocrite. How can you laugh at your own brother. Charity starts at home. Put your pillow up higher and think about it.”
It wasn’t supposed to be demeaning or demoralising. Why did you have to take it that way? Why must you see it that way? Why must you insist on seeing whatever I say or do to my brother as wrong?
It’s wrong. It’s not fair.
I am reminded again why I wanted to stay out of the house more often. Why is it when I am more at home that these things happen? Why can’t things be peaceful? Why do you have to stir things, simple things up like that? Why must you make it like that?
… I don’t understand… I’ll never understand why you are like that, and I’ll never understand why I don’t have the strength to make sure things like this doesn’t happen… I know it’s my fault. It’s always my fault. I’m not good enough. I’m not understanding enough. I’m not smart enough.
It’s always my fault… my fault… mine… always…
I need to get out.
I need to get out.
Couldn't think, couldn't read, couldn't do anything
I was so depressed yesterday…. Couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t even read much. But I had to read, otherwise I would never sleep. So I stayed up till late, so that I could collapse in exhaustion on the bed and slip into Morpheus’s arms without a struggle.
Wanted desperately to go drown my sorrows in a bar so badly, but then it rained. Frogs and toads, I thought. So dashed my plans… then again, I know why it was raining… it was for me.
God always knew that rain would cheer me up... somewhat…
I wish I stayed on my own. My own place. My own person. I always felt that this person who was me, wasn’t actually me. I shouldn’t be so moody, so gloomy, so sad… why must people be sad and gloomy? Did family and friends not make a person complete? Happy? Contented?
I hate being me in the morning, because I don’t feel inclined to smile, to make small talk, to look at anyone. I hate being me in the day, when I wish I could stop thinking of what to eat so that I can watch my weight, so that I don’t become unhealthy. I hate being me in the evenings when I’m thinking of whether to go for a movie with my friend or go for a yoga session to get rid of spare tires and deciding whether to go home to my family (which is so pathetic as my best friend says all the time), and remembering that I need to save money, not to go out. I hate being me at night, when I am all alone, when the family has gone to bed, no one to talk to, no one to share confidences without worrying if they will take offense at my words a few weeks or months down the road, wondering when I will not be alone, wondering what am I looking for in life, wondering where I’m heading, wondering where my career is heading, wondering whether I will ever be a bestseller, wondering if I will ever make it in a world full of harsh people and circumstances, wondering whether I want to be single and in control, then asking myself cynically, am I really in control, as long as I stay under my mother’s roof?
Once upon a time, I promised someone that I wouldn’t do myself in… in my opinion it was a cupboard promise… he didn’t know I was so desperate to know that he was okay, that I would do and say anything to make sure that he was ok. But to me, I’d already made the promise… sometimes honour can be such a damned thing… a hindrance to someone who likes expediency… when I want to do it, I want to do it quickly and painlessly.
I have a love-hate relationship with the night, because it’s so peaceful and powerful that everything seems possible, but that it is so quiet and lonely, I don’t know what to do with myself. And I hate not knowing.
I hate not knowing…
My portal of communication
A lifetime of having to hide and destroy my own diaries (yes, plural, I've todate destroy 5 diaries and a few smaller ones), I've decided that this is a great alternative.
I will be using this to post my thoughts, my weird dreams, my analysis of things happening around me, to me, and to vent frustration. I will also put down some of my writings. Somethings writings effectively reflect what we feel without further explanation. If I ever felt that I could not speak (like it happened once in Perth), this will be my portal of communication.