Man oh man, Young Adulthood.

Found my wordpress blog I used to write unkind things on today. Man, was I angry. Actually, it's pretty understandable given the circumstances of a shared room, but now I think it's time to MOVE THESE ENTRIES SOMEWHERE MORE PRIVATE, yo.

Probably here. Under several locks and maybe a couple of ogres guarding the door. How good are ogres as guardians anyway?

EDIT: It turns out that WP allows both private settings and password protected options. I guess these particular not-for-children posts will remain where they are :D

I love finding things.

Whether it's a couple of bucks in my old coat pocket or a new trail I always just pass by, the sense of excitement that comes with these little discoveries never left with the years. 

AND NOW.

I have found my very old livejournal, hotmail, and AIM accounts that I've forgotten passwords to. Oh man, this is exciting, like some leisurely detective work. By the way, I had to re-create my hotmail account in order to retrieve my livejournal password. My AIM email, however, remains to be discovered. 

In the four and a half years I've been spewing angst here, I have, if not everything else, learned of one quirk: if I am unable and unwilling to express some recent, dominant thought in words, then it is something that I recognized to be painful. Anger, irritation, silliness, and mild depression are easy to form into words. They are easy to confront, dealt with, and dispelled.

Larger looming issues are not so simple.

But the more I avoid thinking about it, the more urgent and problematic it gets, and the worse the condition it leaves me when I accidentally strikes upon it, or when I couldn't keep from making some connection to said issue.

I fear failing.
I fear falling apart.
I fear rejection.
I fear not being able to manage myself, my life.

So I put it aside, forget about it, pretend everything is just as before, blinding myself from what needs to be done.

...and despair afterwards.

(365*4.5)/646=1642.5/646=2.54days/post

I fear being left alone.
I hate being left alone.
Keeping them here is selfish.
Any other alternative is painful.

My chest aches, really aches, when I think about it.

I know I should not avoid it any longer.
I know avoiding is bad, bad, bad.
But I don't want to think about it, just for a little longer.
The pain is getting worse and worse now. Can't even keep myself it check.
Damn it all.

See, I still can't even address it properly. Can't even structure this into something resembling logic.

This will just come out as ridiculously emo! and silly and stupid and teenage-angsty, but it's nonetheless true: I hate my being. I wish I am not such a disappointment to myself and my parents.

The difference between pressing the "save" button and the "publish" button.

For three years and 364 days this place has been an all-understanding dummy of an outlet for everything I have not said, should have said, and would not have said. Through the years blogger has changed and grew (and taken over by Google); I have changed and grew and experienced and understood (and seduced by Google).

I came to understand much about myself, from both looking back at my old, angsty, childish, crazy entries and just from "thinking out loud" like this. What struck me recently is the big difference between keeping something as a draft, safe from public eyes, and published rants that nobody should care about. Pushing the "publish" button releases me from anything that were bubbling inside, no matter its content and emotion hidden beneath. Keeping a draft lacks that release, because I have not said everything, because there is still an unfinished thought, a promise to finish. It is not a burden released. It is not something I have let go, put down, got over (or not), said something about.

It was a rather...freeing experience that I feel I cannot accomplish through this archive alone anymore. The promise, the goal, that I made when I began this thing is something I cannot hold up any longer. Too many things that begs to be said cannot be said here anymore, because I have become less physically, emotionally isolated from others; no longer is there a buffer zone called home between me, what I write, and those who read it.

Everything has become heavier.

ETA: Come to think of it, perhaps this is why I no longer find Kakeru to be a suitable name anymore. It has become a spot on the enormous internet where I spout a little of my own words, leave a little mark, rather than a place to free myself from me. I can't free myself anymore. Maybe the Buddhists were onto something when they spoke of the things one must be disconnected from...

If There Was a Choice...

Oh, I know exactly how I got into this state of mind. And frankly, the
simplest solution would be the Esc key. If only I had a key like that.
These things are becoming not worth my attention, my energy, none of it is
anymore. Perhaps the problem is my own—others certainly don't seem to have
problems like mine...well, then again, others certainly aren't
[stupid, timid, lost, nosy] enough to pursue a solution to prevent
themselves from getting into my situation.

I'm at the end of my tolerance. Oh, surely, I've been managing for a while.
Even that is getting to be too tiresome now. I'm not understanding, I'm not
caring, I'm not kind, I'm not patient, and I'm fucking socially awkward.
I'm afraid of criticisms, rejections, and hated looks.

I can't help even if I want to.
Everything more than staying quiet and offer acknowledgment will ruin
things, I'm sure.

And the biggest problem of all: I can't fucking stop asserting myself
somehow. Can't fucking stay away, can't NOT DO ANYTHING AND SEE IT MANIFEST
AND GROW AND FESTER AND DECOMPOSE.

Yet it's what I've been trying to do all this time.

And it's killing me.

I feel dead.

I'm not reaching an understanding of parent-child relationships. How well the parent can understand the child matters. How well the child understand the parent matters. And how much the parent explains. And how much the child knows for him/herself. Societal outlook differences matter. Language barriers matter. Communication effectiveness. Parent-child personality.

I see I hear I observe I experience.

If there's no straightforwardness in family matters, only impatience and presumptions and suppositions and face, how can I expect anything else in any other situation?

Looking Back Years and Years, Feeling Old and Young At the Same Time.

There was a girl, not a long time ago, who made few friends and was quiet. She made friends slowly; mingling was difficult with children who had a different background, not that she was particularly outgoing, either. She wanted others to like her, because she thought nobody would like her and be friends with her otherwise. She bluffed and lied and pretended, as best she could, to be perfect. She was scared. Scared that anything she did would be repulsive, disgusting. Afraid that being too friendly would be too bothersome.

So she restrained herself from giving a classmate a pat on the back, declined invitations to go to movies and hang out and have dinner. No, she said, I have something to do. Her friends left her alone after a while. And she became more standoffish until it became a habit. Having a parent to drive her home became part of her excuse.

Oh, she was amiable enough to talk to anyone who initiated the conversation. But she didn't make many more friends, and the ones she had she became less familiar with.
____________________________

After a little while, I got fed up with the cognitive dissonance between what I think and what I do. I was also pretty fed up with mindlessly listing what I did from day to day. Originally I thought I should keep all my angst and boy-squealing to another blog that I will hide from the world (or at least from people I know personally). Then on 07 July, 2005, I said, "[t]he last time I posted it was almost a year ago, for the sake of people who don't care about my angst. But then I was like, screw this, and went for putting everything, from anime reviews and afterthoughts to funny links to daily angst on there. 'Cus there's nothing to hide from."

The very first reason for a blog was to record my thoughts, since I've never successfully kept a diary/journal of any sorts before. Its second purpose was to make myself let go of trying to keep my reputation. To open up, and be true. To make myself accept the imperfect, not quite stoic enough self and be happy with it. I've talked about a mask more than once during these years, and I still use this horribly common metaphor. It improved my sociability, and to a much smaller degree, my self confidence and self esteem.

It was partly because I made myself talk about things that didn't make me look good, but more importantly, because the little comments let me know that people will still associate with me even when I had all these faults and imperfections and different pastimes. I'm still working on it.

I once vouched to not censor anything, but of course, it only worked to a certain degree. I especially refrained from talking about my love life, for good reason.

Now, I don't know what I'm doing with Kakeru. I post interesting articles, gives random one line updates sparingly, and comments on things when they come up. It's as if I stopped talking about myself. Perhaps I have more things that fall in the censored material category now. And because I have a person to, uh, listen to me rant now...though the only thing that's changed about that is getting more direct, immediate responses...sorry, Larry =p

I was getting somewhere with this, but, as usual, I've lost my focus. Ah, oh well, this is what the blog is for =)

Child

Parents have been on the plane for two hours now.

Last night, when I called my parents and they didn't pick up, my voice cracked on the 'voice email.'

Last night, when they picked up my call, I found myself sounding casual and not like the stuff that's stuck between my throat and my lungs.

I asked about the Verizon account. What's going on? Have you given me full access to the account? What should I do now?

Father said I sounded tired (it was 23:30). I said yes. I said I can stay up a bit later, but I do want to sleep. Yes I want to sleep, but I'm not as tired as I sound. I'm unhappy that you two will be leaving me and afraid of going out to Sacramento to deal with this on my own.

We said goodbyes and I hurriedly wish them a safe trip, have fun, be careful. Father cracked jokes about being watchful like a toad. Did he notice? I said, "yeah, yeah, alright. Bye, and write back when you can."

Don't go, don't leave me behind, I don't want to be alone. Don't do something without me. Don't leave.

I sounded tired (weak). I said goodnight to Amy, crawed into bed, curled up on my side facing the wall like I always do, and my eyes got wet.

Then I took a shuddering breth, not being able to breath.
Then I wanted to shake and cry.
I took a slow breath.
Closed my eyes.
Missed.

Torn

When I began this blog 3 years ago (has it really been three years?), I didn't want it to be a xanga-typed 'look guys, I'm so important that you'd want to know every little thing I did today' journal. I thought it was silly and ego-centric. Too many censors that kept me from knowing what's really going on in their minds. I didn't like reading those "superficial" posts, and strived to steer away from that.

I wanted some place where I can let some steam off. Some place where I can express myself to my content. Some place to record my thoughts. Some place to let others decide whether they are interested in what I have to say. Some place to open myself as if I would to a...I don't know. A place to throw my image and face and whatever I've built around myself away for a bit. It worked, for a while.

Without even going back on the entries, I know I've shed some of that "I-must-not-show-weaknesses" layer, if only just a bit. Perhaps whether I made myself open up or not made no difference in these three years (afterall, I did became more involved with other activities and grew more comfortable to this setting with these people), but the growth is there, as minimal as it may be.

I still dislike being "not good enough", "not better", and "faulty." It still plagues me. But I've stopped mentioning it and other darker stuff that I used to expose. I stopped writing when I really should. Censored.

Perhaps I felt I exposed myself too much and too little. Perhaps I felt my thoughts worry others.

But me just having a fine, fine life was—is—definately not the case.

I can blame it on the comments thing. I realized, whether I want to or not, I care what these readers feel after the post. I don't want them to think I'm inbalanced, chronically depressed, perpetually unhappy, or that I need cuddling. Becoming aware of these readers...scared me. I don't want them (you) to see me at my worst, at my ugliest. I don't want them (you) to see how selfish, how disgusting, how queer, how...imperfect I am.

I laugh and make fun of my own faults, but it's a strike to myself every time I do it. I hated every time I see myself being ugly.

Nonetheless, I am grateful for the comments. They make me feel just a little more important.

I have a frighteningly low self-esteem.
I am afraid, deathly afraid, of being forgotten.

I wanted to fix this.
I still want to fix this.

I thought this writing would help.
I still think this writing can help. A little.

I don't know what else I can do.
I don't know how else I can stop using the word "I" and stop being so selfish and ego-centric and disgusting.

I'm fucking pathetic.

...

...

...

I know this is treated like a keep-in-touch blog. Even I'm treating it like so now. Things that I want people to know, things that I think are interesting go into these posts. I still refuse to detail my life in this, but that's only because I'm easily bored by having to repeat my day all over. Just a matter of taste, I guess.

And this is the way it should remain.

But too much I leave unsaid. So I will dump the darkstuffs somewhere else. I can't bring myself to not let anyone read it, nor, I've realized, should I force them to choke on the poison I threw up. Not out. Just up. For the same reason I can't bring myself to disable comments. I made the decision to let it out. They (you) have the right/choice to respond. I like the silence just as I like the attention.

Things will change a bit. In the future.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.