This race has no winner

Sometimes it’s hard to find the space to change.

Whether it was due to social pressure or my internal life, I learned at some point that the only person I could psychologically rely on was myself. Therefore I made myself strong. I strove to be independent and do things my own way. When I broke down there was no one to turn to. If I didn’t get up and push on despite the hurt, no one else was there to pick up the pieces. No one was made to feel welcome, and those few I chose to ”let in” failed to live up to my expectations and left me feeling betrayed. I made sure I was so tough that even I lost sight of the soft and sensitive bits on the inside.

This toughness haunts me still. Now that I’ve come to realise I need to be humble and say I’m too tired to continue on my own, that I wish there was someone who could help me up when I fall and support me through the bad patches… I can’t. If and when I do, the following self-flagellation is even worse. After all, getting better is all up to me, and no amount of ”you’re all right, really” from someone else will make me believe it; I will just end up feeling like shit for sharing my burden and being an inconvenience. Even if I’m told it isn’t so.

I’m my own worst enemy, and, damn it all, I just can’t win.



I think the reason I’m interested in the past has to do with the process of disintegrating my personality bit by bit. I’m trying to find out who am I for real; which parts belong to the base package and which ones have been attached through years and years of depressive thinking.

(The below is more a note to myself, a list of things I can or cannot remember.)

I have absolutely no wish to assign blame – I think my parents did as good a job of bringing me (us) up as anyone. But for the purpose of understanding myself, I wish I could find out if my feelings of loneliness and inability to communicate with others was because I couldn’t – or because I wouldn’t?

Was my isolation due to the fact that I tried to express myself and was scorned or laughed at or misunderstood, or was it because I was too afraid to even try? In my family, I don’t think we expressed our feelings much; I was especially keen to escape conflict (and it still causes me huge amounts of anxiety, even if I’m not directly involved). My mother tells me I was ”different” from other kids and ”spoke differently”, and my sister once told me she remembers me as someone who would just sit in a corner somewhere, reading or drawing. Apparently, as a child I was also a bit of a clown and would get my own way by trying to make others laugh. Someone said I was always either happy or sad, but nothing in between. I’ve been told I was stubborn and wanted to do things my way or no way. I liked to make up stories since I was a child. I remember I had an obsession to say a prayer by myself every night; I would have pretty much the same mantra for every night. The memory is faint and I cannot be sure, but I think, among other things, I was afraid of my parents dying (or fighting, possibly) and of nightmares.


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Heard it through the grapevine:

It Has Been Written:

October 2010
« Sep   Nov »


And guess what!

Give me all your money:


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