The Crushing Weight

When I was 5, I used to think I was special. I got invited to reading activities because they said I sounded so good when I read. Then, I started writing, and I wrote everything, even when it wasn't good. I wrote. My parents always bought books and writing pads because they thought from it, I would become something.

Something.

It´s been more than a year since I wrote, and it´s not that I didn´t have something to write; when AI came, I felt all my words die. 

Now that I am at a point in my life where everything feels so strange. Like I´m not myself, and that the sound that I make and the words that I say are not mine anymore.

Tonight, while I was eating my dinner, I felt a strange jolt of pain. The words, you can keep them for so long, but it cannot be helped.

So, here we are.

As a pathological people pleaser, I’ve been lying to myself the past couple of months, saying that I am getting better and that I’m living my dreams, when in truth, I’ve never been so lost in my life. I thought going to a foreign land would make me okay. Partly, it has; I get to see a different world, I have the freedom to explore, learn more about myself, and get creative. But the more I see the world, the more I realise I am stupid.

I have these little notes of things I want to say just in case my boss from work calls for a career coaching session. There’s this sentence I wrote a few weeks back saying, “I feel like I will be stuck here for life and will never grow from this.”

The thing is, I’m not just talking about work. 

It appears that even in life, I will never be good enough at all.

As I go back to writing, I wonder if I would ever write about love once again. My friends always want to experience the rollercoaster ride of being in love. But all I want is to unearth all the excitement that died when I started failing at being in love.

For months, I've wondered if the grass isn't greener elsewhere and if this is all there is. What if there's nothing for me here and I'm not cut-out for this world?

Isn’t it painful that I had to wake up one day and realise I cannot always be the thoughtful, hopeless romantic, cutesy, easy-going kind of person, when my 5-year-old self expects me to become ‘something,’ and yet we are nowhere near anything?

And so, I bought myself books and a writing pad laptop in the hopes that I would become ‘something’

 

But, what if I´m just exhausted?

For all the things I couldn't be

As a kid, I don't exactly know what I wanted to be, all I know was what I wanted to do: Change the world.

Cheesy and clichéd as that.

As a young girl who grew up to certain privileges, I was not really aware of the depth of what it means.

For clarification, I was not special, like those girls I went with in school. I'm just the little nobody who writes endlessly on her own, and people didn't expect so much of me. 

I expected so much of me.

The thing about imposter syndrome is that you don't even know if you deserve to have one. That's how bad I feel about myself.

A lost child. There I was in a room full of people, creating their own noise, and somewhere at the back corner of that room—I saw a version of myself. The one that is not good enough and can't do anything right. On her lifetime, she stopped believing the things she was so passionate about, and swiftly succumbed to stand behind.

I wish I have the slightest idea of how it feels like to step inside a room and be seen.

Seen. Like a typical dream girl, so bright it fills the whole room. I'm nothing like that.

Instead, I saw myself crying for all the things she didn't become, and for all the things she couldn't be. The one who is always figuring out where she really belongs, and certainly not on places she's been to.

I didn't know the depth of what it means to change the world, but I know now the depth of what it's like to fail miserably in changing your inner self.

Most days, I'm always half myself, like I left parts of me at home. But where is home?

Love,

Patricia

Farewell letter I

This is a farewell letter. But how do we really even write a farewell letter, like a season's end, but barely the finale?

I couldn't go very far in my profession, as I always carry with me loads of 'what if' and 'could've been.' I've always wondered why there weren't enough recognition from all those years, a star on my forehead, perhaps? I kept thinking, I just suck. They are right. As I was writing these words, I realized, damn I'm still healing from a trauma induced profession.

By reasonable assumption, I have always believed that all people are naturally capable of kindness and love. But most of the time, people are more capable of hurting others without them even knowing.

I was in my best professional self when I decided to cut it off. They told me that I was really good, theoretically knowledgeable, then they decided to break my heart. They didn't even know.

I'm not well read nor informed with regards to how emotional intelligence (EQ) is measured, aside from having a couple of classes when I was in high school, I'm not really textbook familiar. But ever since I was 6, I knew I was a forthcoming empath (this is what drove me to write things). I'm not good at writing, but I have a thing on conveying emotions even those outside my own perspective. 

I failed in that area. I was told that I was God-stricken emotionally stubborn, in simple terms: a sensitive b*tch. I don't have the capacity to lead because I'm not emotionally intelligent, the one real thing that helped me live turns out to be my weakest link. How will I go up? Shots have been fired. 

When you grow up behind the shadows of great people, it has been a norm to beg for an approval, like a certification that you are legit, otherwise you just suck. At that particular moment, I felt my world collapsed. 

This is not an over exaggeration. Honestly, I never intended to hurt myself when I started writing this, and certainly don't want to make a big deal out of it. The people who have hurt me are probably moving forward with their own lives, oblivious to the pain they have caused. 

The days following are the hardest, I tried proving myself incessantly, with the hopes of being worthy of their approval. Finding a rationale to their decision. I want them to regret letting me go. But instead, I found myself hurting even more.

I am aware, even when I pretend to be someone else, that I'm unequivocally kind-hearted. Empathy pushes people to be more socially aware, more so to be a decent human being. Hatred is something my system couldn't handle. It's a different kind of flame. It destroys. Grudge is probably the death of me. I couldn't even write. I couldn't even do the things that I love. I couldn't be myself. For nearly three years, all I've ever done was to chase approval from people who don't even care; & damn girl. I've been dreaming and getting strength from my spite. 

The thing is there is really nothing to prove. We are each our own. I'm deciding to free it now, so I can finally move, and because that is the only right thing to do. It doesn't even matter now. I'm starting again, two years past my prime but who is counting anyway?

Looking back, it is probably not the intention of the people who have hurt me to cause me pain, and I'm putting myself in an unfavorable position to be asking for an apology. There is no need. Over the years, I have gained more confidence in myself, and I have the sole power to silence opinions that does not even matter in my life. They don't deserve the cost of my peace. Success in my own terms. 

This isn't going to be the part where I'll promise to be better or be the best version. Actually, there will be no promises. This is only the part where I'll say goodbye.

"Farewell to my spite. You don't belong here." 

As I go back to my audit profession, I hope I find new things to improve on. Hopefully, I will find purpose bigger than my own personal interest. One step at a time. I might suck at times, but who doesn't?

So how do we really write a farewell letter, like a season's end?

Let's begin.

Photo by Martin Ti on Unsplash

Spark

 

It’s been 11 years since I started this blog. I figured, even after all these years, I’m still not good at this. I still cringe on the things I wrote, even on the things that I’m currently writing. Nevertheless, I keep them, because it feels like a betrayal to my younger self if I hid them all away.

I’m writing again after a year, because I somehow felt the need to write for myself again. I’m terribly lost. Lost. Lost. Lost.

I thought at 27, I’d be living my life like Carrie Bradshaw; falling in love, drinking champagne, impeccable style, and shopping. No one warned me about the bills that came with being an adult. Those ideals died the moment I knew I wasn’t going to be anything like her. Nothing dramatic, it’s just the reality. I think, after the pandemic lockdown, I’ve already succumbed to the idea that I’m not meant for anything big. So, I’m just trying to have some peace.

But the funny thing is, I still feel it – in the pit of my stomach – that I needed to do something else, although not intensely big, like stopping capitalism or global warming (although that excites me), but something purposeful, a different kind of fulfilled happiness.

During the past few months, I still cry on the thought of my younger self, the ideals that she had and the person she could’ve been. How did I get into this bizarre place, where I always have to prove myself? Back then, I had this little blog and I thought I was meant to be great. Right now, I couldn’t even speak, or much worse, write.

In the next few months, I will be going somewhere far, to search for something that was lost. I’m trying not to put any expectations, nor unnecessary drama, but I’m hopeful I will finally be able to get up and be a different person, the one I want to be. Honestly, it’s a challenging task, but this time, I hope I’m doing it not to prove myself, but to improve who I am.

I will never be Carrie Bradshaw, nor will I ever be relevant enough to have a memoir. But I’ll be the better kind because I’m going to write my own story. No one will ever write a better version of me than myself. I will be kinder, and much understanding, that even if I am not as good as the great people I look up to. At least I know I’ve tried. I’ll always be happy knowing that I wasn’t ultimately lost. Just behind the crowd letting all the feelings in, until there is spark.

Regards, Patricia

Talaarawan

I broke my laptop a few days ago, so I'm currently writing using my phone. I was honestly planning to buy myself a new Ipad this year, with the magic keyboard, so I'm starting to think that the universe wanted me to just buy a new laptop. Let's see what the destiny holds (lol). 

Anyway, I'm writing using my chatty voice to convey the message, that I'm on my way to healing. I've suffered from symptoms of major depressive disorder a few months ago (according to my RPm) and I wasn't able to write so much, or at least publicly. Then, here I am. 

You are probably wondering why I chose this title. It's actually from one of Ben&Ben's songs. I got addicted to them recently (weird but I don't care). I've been a fan of them ever since, I remember liking "Ride Home" for the longest time. I even ended my testimonial speech back in 2018 with a lyrics from the song "Susi" which at that time was not yet pitched in for the Goyo film. Yah, lol I've been a fangirl. So, I chose this title because  it means 'Diary,' and because this post is a little chatty, a little personal, and the only time I told you about my depression. 

I decided to write because apparently, I feel like I'm having an existential crisis. Yes. Apart from the pandemic crisis, I am also having a crisis of my own. Or, probably just the quarter life crisis. Idk.

Have you ever felt like you are on the wrong place? Like, you could be doing something, somewhere else and be much better at it? I do. I've been a CPA for the past 3 years, and I still feel like I'm unaccomplished, to be honest. 

Listening/watching the band, Ben&Ben, for the past few weeks of my life, gave me realizations that I might not be where I am supposed to be (not that I want to be musician or something). It just that, I see so much passion in what they do, and I wanted to feel that for myself too. I think I've lost most of my passions, talents, and childhood ambitions, when I chose the corporate path. In reality, there weren't really opportunities that came my way for me not to choose this path. But, there's this certain longing, a fire inside of me that feels trapped. I don't even know what I'm going to do about it. Where am I supposed to go? Or if there is such a place for me, when will I start looking? Or perhaps, am I too late for it?

The problem is, the only thing I'm sure about is what I don't like (kidding, I'm still in doubt). I'm not really going to be good in the corporate world, I'm never interested in climbing the ladder, or following certain standards or approaches. I feel like I will never be better at this. So yes, I fear for dying unaccomplished. 

I've read somewhere, that we shouldn't work to find happiness or meaning, instead we should focus on making our work meaningful. I've been trying ever since, and all I've got is depression.

Sometimes, I regret going out of the audit firm too soon. Most of the time, I blame people who made me choose to leave. There is still so much to prove, so much left unsaid and undone. And, I always say this to myself, "I could've done better, and it's not my loss, I left." But, it's too late. 

So yeah. I'm ending this blog with a little hope that someday. I will be able to find what I'm really good at, my calling, and die having a purposeful life (and not get stuck).

Here's to all those looking for meaning or purpose, looking for a place in this world, trying to make their everyday lives meaningful. I hope we all get to share the fire and light inside of us. Someday.

Someday.

Thanks, Ben&Ben.

Love, Patrish

Living alone in what was once a busy place

Dear you,

How long has it been since my last letter? I'm not sure anymore. The thing is, I don't even know if I'm still good at this, and that if I'm still worthy of your time. To be honest, I didn't intend on writing a letter, I was just sitting one midnight drinking my daily vitamins, and suddenly realized how lonely have I become. Slowly drowning to an unfulfilling and dark life, as if all the fire inside of me are no longer burning⁠— that's when the realization came to me; I finally understood what it's like to be truly lost. 

The thing that is scary about my situation is that I don't even know if I am making the right decisions: Should I move or stay still? There are days when I don't even want to move, literally. It gets scarier every day, moving seems like drowning more, and I don't want that anymore. For someone, who have always strived rewriting herself, as the 10-year-old girl praying that she'd be great one day, as the college-self who have longed for brighter days after university years, to that girl who used to write intensely, people could almost feel the words in their veins. I am sure that this is not the situation my past self would want to be in. But, surprise.

To tell you honestly, I was not able to write for a long while, because I have been trying to invalidate my own feelings. I was made to be believe that my constant show of emotions and vulnerability was regarded as lack of 'emotional intelligence', a phrase that I was not able to comprehend months ago, for someone who write vividly about emotions - would consider herself, in fact, lacking the EQ. Maybe they were right, but maybe they were wrong too.

The problem is not the lack of it, but the abundance of it. I am so self-aware that sometimes it becomes destructive. Lately, I have been hard on myself for feeling things when others have it worse. "No. You don't get to feel sad or lonely, because your situation is so much easier than the rest." Somehow, this voice is louder than my own. Most especially, today.  

The paralysing feeling of being lost, while also wanting to be great, is never the right combination. I don't even know who said, "be the better person than you are yesterday," because 'fuck it' I don't want any of it. Every day when I try to hold back my vomit caused by this anxiety of feeling too much, I am admitting that I am not getting better every day, I am stuck in this hollowed unfamiliar loneliness, as if I don't have any choice but to be stagnant, and to hold back my tears so that others can't see.

Looking back,this place used to be a busy place, I was always in a hurry, looking forward to the next big thing. Today, it's just me and my thoughts, I have never been this—lost.

That's the thing, maybe I have always been lost, and I don't even know what to feel.

So, one midnight while I was sitting alone in my apartment room, I chose to write a letter (and it took me such a long, long time), to acknowledge, the fact that I am lonely, sad, clinically depressed, booming with anxiety, looking for some validation from you and that is not even right.

Crying while writing this,

Patricia

Resignation

Hi,

I've been trying to write a letter these past few months, but no words seem fitting of all the things I feel inside. Sometimes, there is shouting, other days it's meek and silent, but most of the time, it longs for peace. I've been a firm believer that the world doesn't need "world peace" but rather a universal empathy. I got the idea during my second year in college, while learning Kant in Philosophy. The peace of one may never be the peace of others, so we rely on the greater empathy for others. 

One of my primary principle for writing: Empathy. In Merriam Webster:

Noun

em· pa· thy | \ ˈem-pə-thē 

The action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts, and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner.

I have never loved a word as much as this. 

During my younger days, there is utter enjoyment of relating to the characters of the book I am reading, or best, with people in real life. Internalizing all of them, until it becomes part of me. I thought it was a super power to have vast imagination and clear grasp of people's feelings. Because by then, I could write a lot of things. 

I never thought I would live to this day, when all the things I once loved and once was my own super power, no longer excites me. 

I dread feeling things. 

Though, how I much I long to shutdown the world around me - with my job that does not seem to know how to rest, even in the middle of a pandemic. The pandemic that seems to affect so much of me - the incompetence, the poor and hungry, the less privileged, the dying and the families of the dying. Who knows what they feel. But, how could I? 

I am so tired. My job's expectations, how I could never say, that I've been trying my best, but my work will never be perfectly finished. How could I?

This is when I realized that my belief was right all along; To be able to earn my peace. Others must suffer. So we keep on shutting down our feelings, to satisfy the hustle culture, until it is no longer bearable. Until, we could only hold on to what's left of us - how do we apologize to ourselves, for all the things we did not become?

Who the fvck made us believe, that we could only be deserving of all the good things in this world, if we keep on working hard? With a broken system, how will you say, it's the only choice?

We do not need a dose of positivism, or things that sugar coat the pain. I cannot do it anymore. But, there are no words seem fitting to all the things I feel inside. 

If there is empathy, why do we always have to ask for peace? 

Keep safe,

Patricia

Burning brighter

Babe,

There is nothing scarier than losing the passion on things you once loved. I can never imagine myself not writing anymore.

We all get tired. There is this heavy weight of all things trying to pull us down, as if the world has to be pulled as well in order to continue. I feel it. The unavoidable feeling of not being good enough, that there is always something missing. I think that is what public accounting does to you - it's going to take all your heart and you have to be prepared for it. Though, how much you try to convince yourself that it will pass, as most things will never last, the feeling won't stop and there is no escaping. 

Sometimes, when we get lost or stressed, we only see the darkness and that is okay. No amount of "Positivity" can ever replace the darkness we feel inside, it's just there. The hollow feeling of being caught in a maze where you can't find answers, or feeling that all the pressure is on you but you're fighting alone. As if we cannot continue anymore, and we tagged ourselves unworthy of any praise because we feel like quitters and dumb complainers. Sadness has found its new home. 

Indeed, when something is valuable it will never come easy. 

But babe, we will survive.

You may not know this but we are all made of light. We never see it, but the amount of effort we put in pulling ourselves together everyday are flickers of light. The way we try our best, even if no one sees us is a reflection of our brevity. We are trying to do our best and that's what matters most. If it's taking all of our hearts, then we give it. Our hearts, like seeds - if planted, will bloom. Isn't that what love is?

So, what do we do? 

We breakdown.

Then, we stand up. Then, we burn brighter.

Love always,

Patricia

The Dangers of Not Knowing

Today, I gazed at my own agony of feeling extremely sad for no reason. So I ask myself if this is insanity: level 1

There are days when I feel like quitting my job, running away from it, although my moral conscience does not agree. I am not the type to leave a team and certainly not a quitter. I just want to run away but I don't know where. 

Sometimes, I  feel like I don't deserve to feel sad - I'm blessed with family and friends who care too deeply. I have a decent job with trainings that help me be better. I don't earn much but I am able to eat good food and shop once in a while. I have all these, but sometimes I feel like the world is collapsing and I have nothing, not even strength. 

There is this struggle to pull myself together each day. I find that I will never be good enough. That there are things not meant for me, although how much I want it. I want to be good, but I always fall short. That there are seasons for blooming, then there are for fall, and I should be both but I'm nowhere in between. That I could always aspire to be kind, but there are days when I get furious and hurt other people's feelings. I get furious when I figured I have no voice for world problems. I couldn't even find the right audit procedures for a certain line item. I get sad for no reason. I get sad for being small.

The world gets heavier. The times are rough. How do I pull myself together?

Today, as I gazed at my own agony of feeling extremely sad for no reason. I ask myself again: have you survived days like this before?

I did. Many times. Insane.

Love,

Patricia

Us Against the World

We all have our fears, some of them we may outgrow, some of them we carry along the way, some of them we are not aware of and then they surprise you. 

You came as a surprise. There is silence between us - the kind of silence that pierce through, and we can both feel it somehow

Amidst all those hatred thrown against me, words that said, "you don't deserve to be loved" and that there were times when I sometimes believe it. My pasts have told the universe, that I am never capable of loving. How many times have I given up on love for my cynicism? and how many times have I cried for love in silence? I lost count. I was told that I only deserve the pain I inflicted, only the pain. 

Then, you came. Not from a slow-mo with Never the Strangers in the background. It was just calm, pure calm. 

You told me that love wasn't meant to be overthought. That no one apologizes for feeling too much or not at all. That we live in the age where it's okay to take as much heartbreak as possible, and fall in love just as much,  because that is what really matters at the end of the day.

I never really understood how it's like to live in the moment. But, we started holding each other's hand on an empty parking space, and I don't know how it's like in the movies, but it almost felt like that. 

We'll keep partaking our favorite songs, and listen to it at night. We'll drink enough margaritas and tequila sunrises and be bullies of each other throughout the night. We'll smoke fvcking expensive cigarettes and feel guilty why we did it, but still do it anyway. We'll deliberately walk slowly again on busy streets where people walk on a rush, just to annoy them. We'll be talking about shallow stuff, because we always pretend we dislike the cheese. After everything, we'll laugh at all the stupid things we do. We'll keep falling, falling all the time. I don't know what we are, but this thing keeps me going. 

It has been a year since I wrote about love that was utterly true. And it has been months, when I thought I could never write something like this again. 

On a rainy 3:00 am morning, while we were walking home with tipsy heads,  laughing our ass off for the stupid decision we have made. I started looking for words that would describe how I feel. Then, I saw myself stupidly smiling at the kind of love we are staging - the kind I am willing to fight for. You were fear and love at the same time, I am home and nothing else matter. 

You made me believe that I am still capable of loving. That I could pick-up broken pieces and make it whole again. The thoughts inside my head are complicated, but you understood them anyway. You heard me at my loud silence and made me feel things once again.

My pasts were wrong when they told the universe: I don't deserve it. They were all wrong, and I don't need to prove it. 

Though how much hatred the world will give us, while we fear that maybe someday this will end too. We will be invincible, holding each other's hand. We are living in this moment. Today, it's just us against the world. 

Always,

AP 💖

Photo by Anastasia Dulgier on Unsplash

Breakeven

I haven’t told my seniors about how their review notes give me tantrums. By now, if they are reading this, they already know.  My only point here is that I do feel things so deeply. Even in silence.

Stupid deep.

There are things we cannot talk about simply because they needed healing. These are loud silences that should be understood. I don’t forget things, and I’ve always been sorry. I don’t know how to explain it anymore – but the longer we stay at something that doesn’t give meaning anymore, the more we become the monsters, we promised we never would. I am pretty sure I was becoming it.  That is how I know it has to end.

These days, it is not easy for me to write about love anymore. I always joked about “flirting” and trying to find it cute to have new crushes. Like a 16-yo me; Sometimes, I wish I am still the girl whose stories belong to chic-literature, a funny hopeless romantic.  But, I couldn’t.

We all tell the stories about the broken hearted, but we never told the stories of those who made the tearing. Aren’t theirs broken too?

Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever find love again. The kind of love that’s worth fighting for, the kind of love that grows so deep, you learn to grow too. I want to have a love that doesn’t fear, the kind that does not fall back to the boundaries the society set on us. To paint the town red, at 2am when only silence is awake – I hope I’ll find love that hold my hands when all the sadness comes in. If it comes, I hope I deserve it this time.

In most instances, I feel so deeply about the comments my seniors give me because they always seem like a reflection of who I am as a person; a mess. Fixing my working papers is much harder, than the actual making. Funny.

Quite often, it is truly tiring to be always not good enough. That empathy and recognition have always been given to those who’ve been “good” – but are not meant for the reckless, the heartbreakers, those who chose to stay silent, even if, they all fought too. After everything, we can only be sorry, and that is all.

Why is there always a need to quantify pain, grief, and exhaustion for our feelings to be valid?

“When a heart breaks, no, it don’t breakeven”

Stupid Deep.

Love, Patricia

Photo by Eutah Mizushima on Unsplash