Strength at its Illest

It’s raining and it’s 1:30 in the morning. So yes, I felt like typing an entry. I was watching The Big Bang Theory Season 4 when I suddenly opened a tab and played throw-back RNB and pop songs on You Tube— songs like All My Pride by Jennifer Lopez, or Beautiful Liar by Beyonce and Shakira. Yes, even a person who now endures independent bands and songs has a sexy-dancing, club-music-filled past with the Pussycat Dolls.

I just finished chatting with a friend, who I think actually just fell asleep. We were talking about a common friend. That common friend was once very close to me. He was asking how she is. I couldn’t really say, I have so little news about her nowadays. He then asked if I went all bitchy on her or if I scared her off. I’ve been labeled as cold, and bitchy before. I just never assumed that people would remember me for it.

I was raised in a family where that description would be somewhat of a compliment, meaning people feared you and you made who you are very clear to the people around you. It is flattering, if you watch in an angle where people acknowledge what you are capable of. People who cannot respect you would either shut up, or have to work hard to prove you wrong. It has a sense of empowerment, to be honest.

How I wish I had the choice to change that perspective.

The common friend we were talking about: let’s just say we’re moving in different paces. She’d ask of me what I cannot and do not give to anyone else but my family: loyalty. I cannot comprehend how a good friend is defined for others, but for me it’s somewhat being the ghost who leads another person to a happier light once life finally kills him with reality.

I’ve heard rumors as if she felt underappreciated. I do not know how to appreciate a friend the normal way society does it. Personally, gifts never made me feel special. A person can give me a shirt or a wallet, or any normal thing people give people during occasions, but it never makes me want to embrace that person with a deeper meaning to my life. As selfish as it sounds: my parents have the money to buy anything anyone else can possibly give me. Anything that can be bought,I find simply as flattering, but never deepening. I would rather accept a very old photo, or a movie ticket from our first film together, to make me feel special. Wouldn’t you? Money has played a great role in my life, and I don’t need other people to remind me of its laziness, especially its dull and miserable consequences.

Moreover, I’m the type of person who would rather give you an answer than offer emotional support. I’ve heard she’s been going through a lot. But aren’t we all? Trying to keep a life is tough, that’s why suicide has become an option in our lifetime. What people need to know is when you are in a state where emotional support means nothing anymore, that’s when you’ve reached rock bottom. To prevent that from happening I’d rather have the people around me, or the people I care about, reach an answer before reaching rock bottom. It’s more practical. It’s an option I wish I had before.

I never not understand people to the point that I am completely puzzled with their lives. I am nothing but empathetic. I give my final judgment based on the present they show me, and guess their future based on the past they tell me. I listen and build the stories as how they show me and as how others describe them to be.

Despite this practicality, I still enjoy the art of youth. The only difference is that I would rather enjoy life without having to be a drag. I want to travel, but I don’t want to ask for my parents’ money. I want to party all night long, but without having to sacrifice my grades. I want to get drunk every night and dance my ass off, but without having to make my boyfriend worry. I want to smoke my lungs and my heart out, but without having to emotionally kill my mother. I have to weigh things differently. There is no such thing as selfless happiness.

A friend and I even spoke about the concept of happiness days ago. No, not like the philosophical discussions we have during classes. We actually talked about the film Inside Out, and I explained to her that I am the only person I know who got genuinely pissed at Joy; everyone else was mad at Sadness. People I knew got irritated with Sadness because she tried to alter with the so-called happy memories repeatedly. I was really pissed, I mean extremely pissed, with Joy for stopping her. I even went almost crazy when she drew a circle around Sadness, and said she’s not supposed to walk out of it. Happiness doesn’t teach sympathy or empathy. People have to get hurt to learn, be it from pain from others or from their own memories. Growing new cells without having to lose the others is called cancer. I asked my friend to give me one happy moment where no one got hurt; where no one can get hurt… I dared her. She couldn’t think of an instance right away. While she was thinking of an answer I said “you can’t go partying without your mother having to worry when she finds out; you can’t go wild because that would be selfish of you, leaving your sister and your brother clueless about your mother’s health.” She answered “watching movies at my ‘guy’ friend’s condo.” I replied, “Does your ill mother even know you spend nights at a ‘guy’ friend’s condo?” And ended my statement with there is no selflessness in true happiness.

I cannot even remember the last time I was truly happy. Maybe the small things are all that I have now, to be honest. Like eating Brie cheese with Sky Flakes, or watching The Big Bang Theory. Sheldon never fails to make me laugh. I even get guilty every time I download something from the Internet, because I know our phone bills (which include my Internet bills) have reached an “unreasonable” amount— leaving my mother with another annoying bill that has to be paid by the end of the month.

Don’t get me wrong, I know I don’t hold the title for The Center of Human Suffering. I don’t have cancer. None of my family members or closest friends have cancer. I grew up in a family where if I did get cancer, we’d have enough to do everything to cure me. I definitely do not have the past as “the trapped little rich kid who wants nothing more than my parent’s affection.” I have enough, and I had enough. I grew up bluntly but blessed.

So what’s so cold and bitchy with being blunt and dull? What is so strong with practicality? A class of almost 50 students told me the same thing in general: they find my so-called strength to be somewhat admiring. It was during the class retreat.

I never cry in social events. I choose not to show emotion at all if possible. I’m a very preserved person when it comes to feelings. Honestly, depending on others to listen to my miseries is a sign of weakness. Not that I haven’t had my fair share of sharing emotions; it’s because of my experience in sharing them that I choose not to anymore. I grew up in a Catholic school that holds social events like retreats every damn year. Its results are something I have been through and would rather not go through anymore. But I don’t judge the people who participate. Retreats and recollections are events that loosen up tight knots. I just prefer to loosen my knots on my own.

My mother even mocked that idea once. She literally mocked me, saying that I have the ridiculous Messiah-calling in me. She said I can’t take the blame all the time; and that it was so stupid to carry the weight.

I know everyone carries their own grief. The difference is I literally cannot stop to rest and put it down. I have carried so much that if do, I’d lose being the good daughter, the strong friend, the independent girlfriend, the reliable mate.

I never ask for anything in return. But being called strong is overrated; that sometimes I don’t even want to be the good daughter anymore. I want to not forgive my father for what he did to our family, to my mom. I want to not understand why my sister who doesn’t want to spend time with my father. I want to not see my mother’s sacrifices. I want to not comprehend my friend’s mother’s cancer problem. I want to not embrace my friend who’s going through what we call depression. I want to not love my boyfriend every time I hate him. I want to not understand why I did what I had to do. I want to not grasp the concept of being aware that I am not the center of human suffering, so I can forget the concept that I don’t have the right to think that I suffered.

After what happened to me this year, I want to be sad. I want to be happy. I want to depend. I want to feel. I want to be weak again. Innocence is bliss.

Ironically, my playlist drifted to Mumford and Sons. I can’t wait to hear Lover’s Eyes.

Do not ask the price I pay, I must live with my quiet rage. Tame the ghosts in my head…