All These Useless Things

I've been rediscovering this song by The Cure along with, it would seem, myself. I found these old letters a while ago and reading them, I felt absolutely alienated so I ended up reading a couple of journals as well, to put certain situations in context. 

It's odd that your own memory can be taken out of context by well, your self. Part of me feels like these things were written by someone I don't know. But I do know. I can still cringe at certain memories. I can still feel love for some of the people in these letters, I can still feel like these accounts of things that've happened should be important. Except they aren't. Except I don't talk to these people anymore. I am removed from all this. But I'm not really, am I?

Here are a couple of snippets, here and there to illustrate more clearly what I mean. 

Exhibit A: The most humiliating letter I've ever written.

I'm not even sure why I kept a copy of this. I'm supposing I thought it would go better than it did (it didn't, not even close). While I'd like to be all freaking "yolo" or "life goes on" about these things, I'm (unfortunately) not that kind of person. And yes, I do regret writing this. This is also, ironically how I know I'm still me: I can still feel humiliated for myself. Har, har. The first line of this letter in itself was enough for me to feel like bile was going to come rushing up my throat. But. Well. It was also kinda funny, I guess.

June 18th 2011

Dearest X.5,

I love you. 

Not as a friend but as so much more than that. I'm in love with that and my denial of that for all this time is what's been causing people so much pain. I kept trying to look for you in other people but no one else is as you as you are. 

I've been such a fool.

I'm terrified, I'm so fucking scared that it's too late; I'm scared that I've hurt and insulted you so much because my constipated hear couldn't find the words (the right ones anyway) to say I'm scared that I will never get to talk to you again--or that the next time I do you'll be happy with she-who-must-not-be-named and I'll still be here, just wanting you.

Uhhhh. Okay. What. The silliest thing is that I actually sent this letter. As I am now, I would never write a letter this sappy: not that I don't still believe in telling people you love them that you love them but just that I don't think I'd like to sound like the lovechild of a psychology textbook and an 80s love song. Now, one of my greatest fears is to see this person (X.5) again. How do you act normal around someone who was basically the cause of almost two years of questioning who you are? Not sure. Hopefully, I will never have to know. 

Exhibit B: I used to write stuff about that actually happened.

This is probably because stuff actually used to happen to me whereas now my journals are mostly filled with story drafts/snippets, writing exercises and rants about the government disrupting my life. HAHAHA It's so weird though: I have no idea why I (past Wina) thought that I (future Wina) would want to know about all these things. 

January 20, 2010

Today was a pretty awesome day. Just at home now, sitting on the bed. Got out of lab early and hung out with sila Marz, Qarla and Cara at Z2. 

Had a great time.

Then went off to have a beer with Marz at GP. Red Horse does it for me everytime. Had some noodles with Marz and X2. Took the Erjohn home.

Compana lab was lots of fun. 

Our prof, Dr. (Synonym of Happiness) is the exact opposite of her name. None of our sessions have involved her actually teaching or showing us the parts of the animals. It's fun learning about animals, though.

Anyway, Mars, Jo and Raine are great. So. Yay. Bondehng. Hahahaha!

I think I used to literally, talk to myself. Although, I must admit: Compana lab! Those were good times. 

Exhibit C: I used to be an asshole (sometimes still am).

February 24, 2010

I don't want to be mean to him. Let's get that straight. I guess it's just that I hate how he's so clingy and how he still likes me (oo makapal na kung makapal). And I don't want to be on/off nice cause that's the best way to keep someone interested. tsk, tsk. I hope that the way I look at him isn't the way that X.6 person looks at me--because I don't hate or dislike X.5; I feel bad for him. Not in a condescending way, just in general. 

Difference is that now, I can admit it. And now, I won't write it in my journal for my future self to feel bad about. xD

Exhibit D: Some things don't change, even if they have changed.

Most of the letters I found are unsent. I no longer feel the deep, burning desire to send them to the person to whom they're addressed but I still have no idea what to do with them. Burn? Send? Laugh? Keep? 

This is one that I really liked, that I wish I had sent.

August 6, 2011

X.5,

I've been thinking about anger.

"Where there is anger, I think, there is always hope--hope for things to be different." - David Eriksen, a character from Siri Hustvedt's The Sorrows of an American

I was angry that night at (place); angry because I felt so alienated. I felt rejected and I was more angry at myself than at you. I felt so stupid; at that point, I couldn't yet admit to myself that I was angry because your anger felt like having a gun (my own, cocked and loaded) pointed at me. And because I couldn't admit this, I went crazy. I felt like you didn't care. I was selfish and an idiot. 

Anger is a defense mechanism--it is a master of disguise and has to power to mask, to fool even ourselves into thinking that we are being strong. We think we're enraged when in fact, we're writhing with fear or sadness or longing; we're drowning in weakness.

I am wiping that mask away. I think the biggest display of strength is to acknowledge that you're weak. And I was--am--weak. I miss you. Not just the fun, playful, obnoxious but also the sad, silent person who went on long walks and listened to me complain about PGH and my course. I miss you. But I understand the need for distance.

I'm the queen of distance, remember?

Where there is anger, there is hope for change. I am changing.

I still mean most of what I wrote in this letter. I really think that a lot of the time anger is just a cover-up for something: industrial-strength concealer for a huge, puss-filled zit. In fact, I still mean that on the days when I do think about this person, I do still end up missing said person. But well. Things change. Even if they don't. :))

I counted: I have 14 to 15 journals, filled with letters (unsent, mostly) and life shrapnel (movie tickets, photographs, receipts, bus tickets, coins, gatorade caps). I can't help but wonder: what am I keeping them for? I feel like I'm gathering evidence: this happened, that happened, it isn't just all in your head. For now I'll keep these things, I guess. Maybe when I'm older I'll appreciate all these useless things better. :)