Love. Hate. Love

Why do we hate?

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I may be na├»ve… a dreamer… But is it too much to wish for peace and wonder why we love to hate?

 

 

I know we’re all different.

 

Some of us academically inclined; while others, athletically.
Some of us taller than most; while some, shorter than most.
Some of us quiet; while some simply love to talk.

Some craving nothing but a hot coffee and a book in a cozy bed; while some outdoorsy others prefer nothing but to backpack or go on a nice long hike.

 

Some of us dreamers, fantasising a utopian world and happier people; while some others simply love to hate.

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Why do we love to hate?

 

Why do we love to hate so much?!

 

Why can’t we simply just BE?

 

So your neighbour, a former Catholic, is now in a happy relationship with his gay partner, planning a wedding and parenthood, wears hipster clothing, listens to the blues, drives an old pick up truck, and is African-Asian.

So what?

 
So what?!
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Why do we hate?

 

 

 

Why do we love to hate?

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Sometimes, I quit trying.

Sometimes, you can feel the onset on a down-phase.

Not a full blown depression, but a sort of sadness that lingers on for a while…

Maybe a day… Maybe two…

 

It’s hard to call it out for what it is, but it feels like a lethargy you can’t shake off…

A tiredness of your eyes, your body, your mind.

A dull, hazy ache in your heart.

 

“This can be controlled”, you think.

“I don’t have to let this bring me down so long as I take corrective steps and pick myself up.”

But maybe sometimes you can’t.

Maybe sometimes you’re not really in a position to.

 

Maybe, sometimes it’s okay to let yourself feel this huge impending wave of negative, sorrowful emotion hit you;

because it’s okay not to have the energy to fight it.

 

Maybe, sometimes, it’s okay to take a hit, fall down, and stay down till you’re sure you want to rise again.

Good people, Bad people.

Sometimes I wonder, “Am I good people or not?”

I know I’ve done and said some things that are not good. But do they define me? Do they make me a bad person?

…And then I find my answer in the overwhelming guilt that I feel any time I make the littlest blunders.

I am Good People.

I want to talk to you about my period.

I want to talk to you about my period.

I’m writing this because at least for a while, as I write, my mind will be a little distracted. There’s also things I want you to know; but more importantly, there’s emotions I want you to feel.
Everything I’m feeling right now is real to me. And it shatters me.
And I think the world needs to know.

It’s now 05:42 in the morning, and for the past 90 minutes, I’ve been writhing around in pain, sobbing hysterically, and hating my body for doing this to me every month.
And this is me on the first day of my period every month.

Sometimes, this is me for the first two days.

This pain will last a while. A good while. I usually succumb and swallow a painkiller, but without one, this pain can last a good 5-6 hours. Or sometimes the entire day. Or sometimes for the first 5-6 hours in the day, some brief respite for about 4 hours in between, before it resumes for another 5-6 hours and into the night.

“Menstrual cramps” is a very generic way of terming something every woman will describe to you differently. For me, it’s a crippling back ache, abdominal ache, sore hips, very sore thighs, aching calf muscles, and a headache from all the crying.
That’s just the external, physical pain.

There’s also an indescribable amount of discomfort to deal with since I can’t lay on my back because I may “leak”, I can’t lay on my sides because my hips are very sore, I can’t lay on my belly because again, I may “leak”, I can’t stand much because my legs are weak, I can’t sit long enough to rest because, again, I’m crippled with fear of leaking blood no matter how careful I’m being.
Also, I’m cold and shivering because that always happens on Day 1; but I’m also feeling hot and sweaty in between my thighs.
I’ve got on a pad that doesn’t help the hot, wet, sweaty feeling; and in about three days, I’ll have rashes on either side of my crotch because that always happens after about 4 days of non-stop feminine hygiene product usage.

Oh I haven’t told you about the emotional wrecking yet.

I’m sure it’s a lot of fun to say a woman is “PMSing” when she’s being a bitch, but you have no right. The emotional rollercoaster that JUST ONE month’s period is, is scary to describe.
I can’t speak for other women, but me? I go from stupid self-pity, to absolute hatred for my body, to a strong desire to stab into my abdomen with a kitchen knife several times, to insuppressible rage against everything and everyone, to fits of uncontrollable sobbing, to suicidal depression.

It’s easy to write all those things off. Even I do, a few days after my period is over… But I wish you knew how real all those feelings are at the time.
How real all those feelings are RIGHT NOW.

I’ve been dealing with this for the past 14 years.

That’s 168 periods. Or the way I see it, 168 times, over 14 years, where I’ve come close to yanking my hair off my scalp and crying myself into nothingness.

I appreciate all the help, support, and space I get from friends, family and colleagues during this ordeal, but I wish it helped. I really wish all their efforts helped.
I think I just wish for anything that could help.

Or anything that could take it away.

It’s now 06:23, I’m crying, but now I think it’s because of the self-pity I’m feeling as I proof read while writing, in addition to the pain, discomfort and emotional meltdown.

In other news, I might have to do nothing today, just like I do every first day of my period each month.
So that means calling in sick to work. Cancelling my lessons. Cancelling my home lessons. Cancelling my practice sessions.
Cancelling my workout plans for the next 4 days.
Cancelling any social plans for the next 3 days.
Avoiding people as much as I can for the next 2 days so I’ll have less apologising to do for being rude and snappy.
Going AWOL on my IM because, again, I might snap.

And even after I’ve taken all this trouble to type this out on my phone, I’m reconsidering sharing it.

I know it’s personal, and probably should not be out circulating on the internet.
And maybe not everyone needs to know.

But again, everyone needs to know.

I think people really deserve to know why most women are so messed up every monthly cycle.

I know no matter how much I try, I’m never going to be able to put into words the full magnitude of what transpires in my body and mind, but I think I tried my best.

It’s now 06:44. I think I’ll watch videos of animals being adorable and cry thinking about how innocent and pure they are, because I don’t think I can cry myself to sleep.

Feel.

It’s been a while since I wrote, and as I do, I realise exactly how much I missed it, and how much more I regret that I did not put enough effort to keep writing.

 

This one’s a reflection, as clear as I can try to make it, of what I feel at the moment.

I like my space. It clears up my head, helps me think and see more clearly, and keeps me sane.
And so, wanting to have this space for myself everywhere I go, everything I do, is but natural.
I make no attempt to empathize with people who don’t place this similar importance on space.

This is me.

 

I like my autonomy. I function better, work more efficiently, and am 100% productive if I so choose to be.
Wanting the autonomy everywhere I go cannot be wrong, for that is how I’d like to be. That is how I find I am most useful.
I don’t see enough reason to give up my autonomy as I go along, quite simply because it defines me- Adds to my identity.

This is me.

 

I like to stop and smile. With passion flowing through me, I see no reason not to let it show.
Life is full of the littlest precious things that make me smile a rare, watery-eyed smile. Things that most people rush past and don’t see…
Things that a fast-paced, competitive life doesn’t give you time to see.
I cannot bring myself to stay away from passionate emotions that draw me. Losing myself occasionally is inevitable, and I am unapologetic for it.

This is me.

 

I seek meaning. In everything.
In music. In quiet. In noise. In travelling. In dancing. In exercising. In screaming. In crying. In loving. In hating. In sleeping. In waking.
In living.
I cannot convince myself into anything that seems redundant or makes no meaning to me.

This is me.

 

I am smart. Very.
I know it because I feel it.
I know it because I’ve sensed and seen it.
I know it because, on the rare occasions I’ve shone out, they’ve been of absolute brilliance.
I cannot be expected to seem smart at all times. And if you’ve known me and not experienced it, it’s because you don’t inspire it. My motivation to apply myself depends solely on inspiration.
I believe everybody’s does.

This is me.

 

I am capable of greatness.
I know this because I can feel it in my bones.
I know this because I finally understand where all my undecidedness stems from.
See… To not know what you want to do, what you want to become… Because everything seems doable… That’s how I know I am capable of greatness.
But alas, knowing I may not be able to do a lot of those great things simply because I don’t aspire for them enough, is also something I have to live with.

This is me.

 

This is me, now.

 

And I wish you were more like me.

The Fear is Real.

The fear to love.

The fear to live.

The fear to trust.

The fear of giving in.

The fear of losing out.

The fear of being left out.

The fear of having too much.

The fear of having nothing at all.

The fear of relapse.

The fear of emptiness.

The fear of the dark.

The fear of the light.

The fear of the unknown.

The fear of knowing too much.

The fear of being crazy.

The fear of not having lived enough.

The fear of prejudice.

The fear of an absence of reason.

The fear OF reason.

The fear of people.

The fear of loneliness.

The fear of dying.

The fear of pain.

The fear of uncertainty.

The fear of belonging.

The fear of never belonging.

 

The fear of living.

The fear of life.

The fear of dying.

The fear of death.

The fear of emptiness.

 

The fear of loving,

and The fear of not.

 

 

The absence of fear.

 

 

The fear of nothing at all.