Streaming thoughts on the night of August 17th, 2020, 3 15 a.m.

What if the outside world is really really screwed up. What if the people that I care about is being hurt, or having a very very bad day. If I’m waiting for a news of someone that I care about, and he or she doesn’t really have the time always being busy with his or her job and cannot reply back to me of course I’m kind of worried. But my reaction toward that kind of stuff is that I’m going to shut myself again, and I’m going to imagine there’s nothing outside of my room. And by doing that I’m cutting myself from the world, from the reality of life, and I am fully alone in my room having no connection whatsoever with the outside world. I’m also willing to cut off all connection to the internet, I could just turn my phone off, I’m willing to go to the extreme like uninstalling all communication apps.

It’s always like I don’t want to be treated this way, that’s why when I cannot get the news or update, or being FOMO, rather than being panicked or anxious I can just get angry and cut people off my existence. Of course it doesn’t really do that, like tomorrow I can still talk to them if my thoughts are wrong. Most often my thoughts are wrong, so it will be much easier to do this and not bugging other people who I’m worried about. But sometime, just sometime, if I’m right, it’s going to be one hell of an experience. And there goes the regret, the grief, and all the sadness that entails the fear of missing out.

Then when I have gone through years of depression and anxiety, I’m going to start to hurt myself or other people, or I could be just as functional as I can be and I’m going to be dependent to other people, being such a toxic person that my family and my friends will circle around me because I cannot function very well. The center of pathetic attention. I think most people will experience this kind of thing in their life at least once or twice.

As far as I can remember I’ve been in that kind of situation several times. In those times I was helpless. There is a piece of my mind that always think that I’m never really get out of that kind of state even when I’m functional, independently financially stable, but still my need of other people is quite high. Even though I am kind of introvert and enjoying myself a lot when I’m alone but most of the time I am dependent to other people. And the more I think about it, the more I read about it, there’s no other choice but to be dependent. I mean if you read Durkheim, you’ll know that even when you’re alone you are dependent to other people who make your clothes for you, build your room for you, build your bathroom even, you never really alone.

Anyway, I’m thinking about a lot of people. But mostly I’m thinking about one, you, or three people that I know to have a lot of problems and so heavy burden in their life in which I cannot help even a little bit. They can always say that I’m a good friend who listens to them who always try to give them advice or do research for them but in the practical way, I did absolutely nothing. Is that a negative feeling, a cognitive distortion, am I filtering all the positive thing in my life and made it negative? It might be so, but I think that I am alive and most of the time.. useless.

The problems outside of my room, are a lot. Some of those problems are here with me, in my phone, in my bank account, in my messenger chat. But I have the control just to cut it off. And I’m using that control to make a world of my own where I wish I could feel safe and sound. I’m just hoping that’s what I open my door tomorrow the problem has been resolved or it’s still there and I could work it out a bit until it’s solved. Even though I know, there are lots of problem that will never be over, and we’ll still always be there until the day I die. There’s nothing that time cannot heal, some old people say. But what if you don’t have time, guess when it’s over you won’t be there anymore. Such a wishful thinking. I think it’s time for me to go to bed, and being a place that I really like. A place where I could be alone, comfortable, and free. A place where I could use all my imagination of an idea world, in which I could control stuff that makes me sad and put it out, shut it out of my life.

Until next morning, if there ever be the next morning.


This is an authentic writing. No generative AI involved, just my genuine idiocy (might not have intelligentia at all). Anyway, if you like what you read, treat me a cheap cup of coffee by donating here will ya:

English, Memoir, Racauan

Dysphoria #1: Self-made Hell

This is a work fiction. All resemblance with the reality is on purpose. Explicit content.

It is obvious that my loneliness is the main cause of all these fuss, unfaithfulness, the distorted feeling of entitlement. It is my most deceptive defensive mechanism–that the truth, in itself, is self destructing. I am alienating people in order to alienate myself from the hell that they construct.

Creating my own hell, is better than living somebody else’s heaven.

Thus, I hurt myself again, just to find a way to make me forget that I am lonely. I hurt myself with bulimia, with days of sleep, with obsessive scratching, cutting, and obsessive exercise when the manic came, sleepless nights, and after that I still want to punch any guy, or fuck any girl that I think deserve my fist or my dick. I am all open to fight or fuck because I’m sick of flight.

And I’d desperately love anybody who wants to love me. And I’d burn myself, sacrifice myself, ready to be crucify like Jesus H. Christ, and I’d beg people not to leave me until they’d got annoyed and see me as a freak and they need to leave me to stay sane because I’d drive them crazy, so I’d drive my car. I’d drive and drink myself hope to die on the road, hopefully with other assholes that swarming the highways of this city.

And all of it would be my fault. Nobody can blame or even care about my disorder, my upbringing, the system that I am in. I and only I, will be held responsible for all this mess that’s happening with my life and other people that I dragged.

The fucking shrink might say that this thought is cognitive distortion, self entitlement, but fuck you, the court, the people’s court cannot hold my disorder, my upbringing responsible for my actions. They cannot put those abstract nouns in jail, they could not rehabilitate my illness. It is I and only I, will be held responsible for my actions.

And what else should I do but to embrace what the universe has given me? I have eliminate the choice to take my own life because of the meds or because I’m a fucking coward. Anyway, I have no choice but struggle against a sea of trouble and by opposing hope to end them. Even though I know, that I will lose and drown and will face inevitable slow death. But at least I did fight back and refuse to flight.

At least I did good, at being brave. To open my eyes every day, and trying hard to get out of bed and go out to the world. To fight or to fuck. And if I have to lose love again, I think it’s just because I don’t deserve love. I am condemn to beg. For mercy, for love, for attention, only to toss it all out, when I feel lonely.

Because of this distorted feelings and thought, that I’d rather be alone, than be lonely. And the only way to be out of the misery of loneliness, is to break all ties and be perfectly alone to face the misery of the ubermench, the homo deus. Until there is no happines or misery any more, until there is no value in the narrative of my life.

It is when I became forgetful, mad, or die.

Sickness unto death.

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Memoir, Photo Essay, Portfolio

A Birthday after A Funeral

Hamlet teaches us the irony, when his mother and his uncle were married and having a wedding party a few months after his father’s funeral. However, Hamlet and Hamlet alone felt the sadness and that irony.

On November 11th, my dear mother, Ratu Dyah Intan Irawati, was having a birthday party–the saddest birthday party in her life. A day before, her sister passed away. She was the closest to her compared to many of their relatives. She met her a few hours before her sudden departure. Ratu Happy Komala Dewi, RIP, was preparing my mother’s birthday before she died. She was the one who gave the idea of the venue.

Of course, the party was not actually a party. The irony got real sharp, when near our table, there was some people who were really partying, with live music and all. When the hotel gave their birthday services, they sent a singer to sing happy birthday. Of course the singer was trying his best, to make everybody enjoyed the party–which of course was not a big success.

This is some selected photos from that event.