I could keep my emotions all by myself just fine. I could contain it well enough so people won't know about it. Throughout my whole life in a new country I kept it well.
Or so I thought I did.
What I didn't know is that I wasn't aware of any of those at all until I started writing. I started writing when I was 12. I thought it was a good story but I didn't continue it because I lost my 'inspiration'. Along the way, I got praised that I was good at singing. I started singing random lyrics at home and in private, still shy about it and all. When I turned 13, everything was gray. I continued to write every stories I could write that pops in my head, and one day discovered it was called a 'plot bunny'.
I kept calling them plot bunnies until I turned 14. In 14 I learned that everything I wrote has emotions. Every words that I sing contains what my heart wants to say. Every plots that I twists are my fantasies. And every notes that I hit holds my tears.
I realized that everything just became too gray for my liking.
Deep down inside me I know I'm hiding something cruel. Something weak, something that would make people hate me so much. The secrets that are untold, secrets that's locked deep in the darkness since I was 5.... I kept it that way in fear of getting disliked. But I realized a little too late that I was already disliked.
I could still remember my childhood...My 3 or 4 years-old self. My own cousins telling me I'm adopted, not letting me play with them, looking at me disgustingly - or was it disapprovingly?- That would sometimes make me ask my parents if those things that they said were true.
I would sometimes even ask myself "What's wrong with me?" or
"Who am I?",
But every time those questions come up at some point in my life, they were always left unanswered.
I thought I know who I am, what I'm going to be when I grow up but now that I'm aware of what I think is everything, I realized there was a pattern. A pattern where it tells me I was supposed to be alone.. alone in this world with no lover whatsoever.
I thought that that's all it's going to be, but there was more. It's the feeling where I am here -living, breathing- because I'm supposed to make people happy, glad, and content with their life. That if those things happen to the people around me then I'm content with that and could survive being alone, just to see them happy.
Though I'm also aware of what my physical body wants.
It's tempting me to do something. Something horrible, something mad. It wants to throw a tantrum, get a boyfriend, commit a suicide. It wants to feel the pain of cutting the wrists. It wants to shout at the top of its lungs. Wants to tell the world how unfair life was.
And all I could do is try to stop it. Stop the temptation, stop the thoughts, just live the life I always wanted to reset since childhood, and tell it and myself that those things are not worth it and just endure through this until our real end would come. To convince ourselves -myself- that if I even have a chance to reset it all...
That I won't. I won't reset it because if I did then there are chances where all if the things that I have been through will happen again and all resetting will do is nothing or..... not meeting anyone that has made my life so full of colors. So full of memories.
So full of love, of hate, of anger, of happiness, of loneliness... It's that feeling of everything that had made my life so full of colors.
So maybe I could live through life just fine if I could just find a better way to express my feelings right. And not contain it to myself until I finally explode. Find a way to make myself better, and not get stressed over something that may or may not get fixed. It's just the sting in my chest that triggers it all. It's like a bullet painfully passing through my chest. It hurts too much that I have to clutch my chest with my hands trying in vain to stop the pain, crying my heart out even though I, myself, do not know why. It's as if my body was having its own breakdown of the things that happened to it.
All I could do was try to understand it.
But I can't. I just have that feeling that maybe this body isn't mine, that it's just a host. An instrument used for physical contact that allows me to do work with other objects. And if what I felt was right, then I think my host is giving up on living this life. Giving up from everything. Telling me to let it do what it wants to do.
To just die.
But I held on, hugged myself, hugged my host, and told it that maybe this is not the time. That it just needs rest, and express it's feelings physically more often, even if it's still more private. At home, in my room..or maybe in the bathroom...
And just Act.
To let it do just that, I picked drama as a subject in my High school. I picked it to learn how to express myself more freely. To express the feelings that was kept by my host all along.
And so it did.
My host kept surprising me, as all it did was act, and act, and act.... Even at home, when it releases it's feelings, it turns it into a dialogue. It was almost believable that I think my parents thought I was just acting for my school subject. Even the words I was singing, I felt like they thought it was from another songs in the internet and not really my own. But who was I to judge?
Each day that passed, my host gets more emotional, more heavy, more fragile.... and getting more into saying lots of dialogues. I didn't understand what was going on, until it was time to get my glasses changed to a new one. My host still surprised me as it breaks down, hugged the glasses and has spoken more lines.
"Thank you for the memories...." was one of the things it sobbed out. So many more things that it mentioned, cried for, until the day we're getting the new pair of glasses.
When I came home, I acted more differently. More clean, more organized.....more emotional.
By then, the songs intensifies, the stories was long and static or stereotyped, the acts are more dramatic than ever before. They were more different.
The tones would change when it was a reply, thoughts that wants to be said out loud.
There were times where those 'thoughts' would just slip from my mouth in the middle of the class, and I would catch myself in the middle or after saying it. Almost like leaking their way out just to be said out loud....all of a sudden it just became a habit of saying dialogues at home.
I got confused by it all, got worried. Got paranoid.
Then one night, in my room, where I could finally be alone with myself, did everything that has happened finally click into places like a puzzle getting solved.
All this time I never really noticed, never really thought that maybe this wasn't healthy, didn't really think that it's starting to get to me. It wasn't really that obvious because I'm still aware of my own. And I didn't really know about it at first.
Just aware that it exist.
That maybe I'm not alone.
That I'm having a Multi-personality disorder.
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