New Year, Old Pain

Dear Journal,

It's been a while since we last talked. I know I don't need to make excuses for not talking to you, but I want you to know it has been a combination of temporary technical issues, school, and life. 

Just so you know, I've been taking good care of my physical health, though I did catch a cold a bit before Christmas Eve. My mental health had been fairly stable. Yes, had. For the record, I'm taking my meds regularly. It's not the anxiety that's hurting me at this exact moment. It's the trauma. 

Do you remember what happened last year? Well, yes, a lot. But one of them was moving away from my emotionally abusive roommate on May 20th. Another was receiving a sick birthday present, a review trashing my writing because the reviewer had a personal problem with me. I can write those two sentences because I already emotionally unpacked those two things with my therapist. And I truly thought I had moved on.

But I still feel the effects of my roommate N's abuse (confirmed by my therapist when I told them I thought I was overreacting), and my former metamour S's review of my first book still haunts me from time to time when I'm on the keyboard, working on my third one. Today is one of those days that I feel a little extra jumpy and tired. I just checked; my period tracking app confirms it's my first day of PMS. PMS doesn't render me unable to handle anything; it simply makes me more emotionally vulnerable.

I was kind of a mess this morning, being almost late for class and forgetting my papers. I was already overthinking about it, but to add acid to the wound, I saw N at school today. We didn't talk. I was just entering the classroom of my next lecture, which I thought was empty, and there she was, collecting her stuff. I walked away, right when I recognize her, to the third floor to get a textbook I didn't need for the next class. I just stood there, distracting myself with whatever I had on my Kindle then. 

My therapist would be proud of me for respecting myself, but it makes me question myself, "Am I respecting myself? Or am I just running away?" And that is despite the fact that I know it's one of the effects of emotional abuse. I feel angry, and hurt. I feel like making a hole in the wall with a wooden chair, or my fist. I feel like sharpening my knife before tracing it down from my wrist to the healed wound I got from drawing my blood for an STI screening, leaving a trail of maroon liquid. I feel like crying. I feel like s**t.

And earlier tonight, a friend told me they liked my first book, especially how I handled Ash. (By the way, my boyfriend did too, a few days ago. I was fine.) She gave me the feedback I had asked her: what she liked, what I did well, and what could've been better. She was really nice about it, with a bit of humor as a cherry on top. But, perhaps because of the exhaustion, S's sick birthday gift came back to haunt me from that moment. 

I know no writing is perfect, especially when one's talking about someone's first story. I've dealt with predators like the local writing police wannabe, but it's very different when it's personal. It's very likely that S was hurt, and for some reason they blamed me for that and showed it through their angry review. And the review truly gives me agonizing pain. I'm only lucky that my meds prevented them from becoming psychogenic ... for the most part. 

Similar to the effects of N's abuse, the memory of S's review made me feel rage, and crippling self-doubt. I feel like calling my ex and throwing the blame at her. I feel like wrapping my ropes around my neck and calling it a life. I feel like shouting and screaming. I feel like s**t.

But I have promised myself to never learn how to tie the hangman's knot. 

I have promised my psychiatrist to not grab that knife. 

I have promised my best friend that I'd get her meds for her tomorrow because she couldn't leave work early enough to get them herself.

I have promised someone that I'd let her know when my manuscript is ready for her. 

I have promised to meet someone for a coffee date and see if he and I are compatible. 

I have promised to tie one up completely because it's her fantasy. 

And I have promised to expand my own boundaries with someone because I'm tired of fearing. 

I even thought about getting a tattoo of a semi-colon on my left wrist. Do you know of the semi-colon project? A semi-colon is used when a writer could've ended a sentence but chose not to; so it is used to support struggling people of all kinds, but especially suicidal people ... like me. I use semi-colons to show my support because I am still choosing between getting a tattoo and potentially being banned from bathhouses in Japan, maybe my mom would be devastated as a cherry on top.

I couldn't sleep when I wet my desk with salt water as I turned my laptop back on, but now that I've written it all out, maybe I can finally fall asleep. I've had a long day, with only lunch and dinner breaks in between, and the lecture of the strictest professor in the university starts at 9:30 tomorrow.

If you decide to write back, I look forward to reading it.

Love,

Wathanya

Author's Note

Hopefully, I'll feel better in the morning.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

My father kept a diary (diaries, many of them) for at least 40 years, and I'm reminded of them when I read this. Like you, many of life's issues disturbed him, so he wrote about them. There is a certain amount of healing in doing so, I'm convinced. Although I don't have a clear understanding of you, I do understand what it's like to be on the outside of things and never really fitting in. I guess I could have, at times, abandoned the real me in order to be accepted, but that would've been wrong. I suspect that may be the way you are. Fiercely dedicated to the music that only you hear-- I think that is admirable. My generation used to preach "Be yourself", but they've now mostly forgotten, it seems.
I'm sorry that some folks have said or done things that made you feel bad. It's part of life, I'm afraid. Just recently, I discovered (by accident) that a certain popular girl from India has blocked me. I'm not sure if I ever even reviewed anything of hers, but for some unknown reason, she apparently thinks I'm pretty awful. It happens. Who the hell knows why people throw stones at us. Most don't, thank goodness.
Your writing is some of the cleanest and most correct of any I've ever seen on this site. You're a very good story-teller, but not everyone will like your stories. I admit that they're not easy for me, but I'm all for you continuing to write just exactly what is in your heart. Keep a stiff upper lip, my friend, and don't let the b******s grind you down.

[Wathanya.5KY3]

I am quite sure your father wrote about life's issues for the same reason as me. Studies have shown that writing one's problems on a paper have a therapeutic effect quite similarly to talking to a friend.

I have tried to abandon the real me in order to be accepted as well, but it just felt wrong and uncomfortable. I wouldn't recommend that to anyone. But I suppose being myself can make me an easier target for certain people. As you say, it's part of life.

That is very strange about the Indian girl blocking you. You are one of the kindest people I know on this site, and I sure as hell wouldn't throw a pebble at you.

Thank you for your kind words. This means a lot to me. You are one of the few people who give back hope for humanity. I am feeling a little better now (in the morning), and this just brightened my day.

[DIVYA]

Keeping a journal is very therapeutic and always helps. This is very nicely written about the day to day woes that we tackle and I am sure you’ll be more than a step ahead this year in overcoming them.

[Wathanya.5KY3]

Yes, it is very therapeutic. And thank you for your kind words. I hope you have a good year as well.