English, Memoir, Racauan, Teater

2018: Year of Love and It’s Terror

Those who know me probably know that 2018 might be one of the heaviest year of my life. In January, I lost my father. I gain some old and new friends. Lost them. Gain some love, lost them. Gain some weight and mental illnesses—Oh, shit they won’t go away. Probably my closest friends now.

I honestly lost the will to tell you my stories, for they are dull, cliches and most of you who knows me already know. People have disappointed me and I have disappointed people. I woke up tonight crying for the words I have said repeatedly to them; words like “I love you”, “please understand”, “I’m Sorry”, “Don’t leave”, and “Why?”

And their words are echoing in my mind, “I refuse your love”, “Don’t make your illness as an excuse”, “You’re the one who left”, “Up to you, whatever”, “Don’t need to apologize if you don’t feel guilty about it.”

You know that phrase YOLO, or do things you want to do before you regret it, whatever. Well, I did what I wanted to do and said what I needed to say and I still regret them. It’s like everything is a mistake (that is depression). So here I am wordless and worthless. For the world around me is working against me. For the people I love either left me, or can’t be with one another therefore can’t be with me, or keep making shits that made me have to do shits for them, or keep saying they love me and expect just too goddamn much by expressing their pain and need to be with me, or expect me to be something that I am not. I keep give a fuck where I shouldn’t have and I don’t know why.

I honestly, from the bottom of my heart, HATE this year because it’s full of love. Because from those love rise jealousy, and hatred, and mental illness, and all sort of problems with no end or solution on sight. The things that love precedes this year are existential terrors. Culture and institutions have made loving to be so fucking demanding, by creating this “either-or” principles in people’s mind, and terrorizing us with the fear of loving or losing love. So fucking complicated. I hate this year for taking so much of my mind and soul.

This is the year of desperation.

And the scariest part of this year, is the tiny hope it gave me, lurking behind those depressions and unrequited love. The hope that we all can find a balance to be with one another, and loving each other without all the commotion of heartbroken drama and social contracts that goes with it. The hope that life is worth living, because deep inside, we are all missing each other.

If love is a verb, it is a painful one. Since in that action I have to be still and accept the fact that stillness is what most people I love wanted from me. The stillness corrodes me, for expressing my love will do nothing but harm. Love is a tyrant that binds me out of you all, lock me inside of my mind.

But if that is what it takes to live this year and the next, shall be it. For I love you, and nothing can stop that. I’m gonna die a masochist.

I wish you all a happy new year.

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