an apology to start 2018.

Sorry that I told you to fuck off in 2017.

Sorry that I told you to go to hell.

Sorry that I told you that you were a good-for-nothing idiot, that you were not even worth my while listening to, and that I told you all that and more out of my own twisted frustration with myself.

Sorry for not being able to see the good in you or anybody. And sorry for playing stone, never emotional enough for you to realize that my fucked-up obsession with perfection goes even harder on myself, that this faulty walnut of a brain turns inward too often to only see the flaws of its own proprietor in exhaustive detail to the point where I can’t bear but hurt myself and would more than thank whatever merciful being would come and put an end to this flawed existence.

Sorry that I would rather bear the hatred, the rejection of every living being than the self-hatred of my one self. And I’m sorry to be willing to go to great lengths to be hurtfully honest at least once in a while in order to please my own perverse obsession, almost sadistic, and be sometimes so honest that my bluntness has hurt you. And I’m sorry that at the heart of all this bullshit lies the fact that I, the true, depressed Sukanya, must emerge at least once every so often from underneath the leaden, suffocating mask of the eternally sarcastically jovial Suk to breathe in order to not asphyxiate and perish forever, forgotten as a mere punctuation mark in the history of me.

Sorry, mother, for being such a bitch to you. Sorry for not having been a better daughter, sorry for pissing you off, sorry for not acknowledging often enough the sacrifices you make without which I would not be here today…

Sorry, father, for not having forgiven you sooner. Sorry for not having realized that you are human too, and that yes you fuck up, and that yes you have emotions too.

And I’m sorry to the empty void in my chest that people would call a heart. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, for dragging you over whatever jagged rocks I could find just so that I could feel something for once. And yes, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry for not having realized sooner that I was just dragging over rugged terrain an airy cavity whose leaden contents had so long ago been emptied out over the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.

And I’m sorry to my empty tear ducts. I remember in my eternal numbness having used you once, maybe twice, this entire past year.

And I’m sorry to my body. I’m sorry for taking my anger out on you instead of taking care of you as I should.

And I’m sorry to all of my readers for not being able to be more positive, not being able to share happy stories of butterflies and unicorns or even deeply revitalizing ones of human redemption. I’m sorry that reading my writing has depressed you and probably made you question your existence.

And I’m trying to change in 2018, but I’ve tried so hard to constantly change and reinvent myself over the past year that I’m tired, fatigued that my efforts have borne no fruit, exhausted at faking a smile, a laugh, a pointless conversation when my true mind is twenty thousand miles away in Hades.

And I will keep trying, I will keep torturing myself through false extraversion and my cursed mask of jovialness just out of self-defense, just so that people don’t think I’m as socially inept and antisocial as I truly am.

And so I shall trudge on, on, on, with every year deeper into the mired, incomprehensible labyrinth that is life, farther into my self-inflicted torture, farther, farther, farther…

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A Rainy Day

It rained on the park bench. And a drab, dirty, miserable at that.

It rained on the homeless man laying upon it, every fiber of whose being shuddered at the sound of every splattering drop in the drenched coldness of despair.

It rained on the fallen, forgotten crabapple, half-smushed by the feet of pedestrians past.

It rained on the back of the dead, rotting squirrel corpse in the middle of the road. In its eternal sleep one may discern even a relieved look, as if it had finally escaped the burdens that haunted it in life.

It rained on the dirty, discarded shoelace chewed up by its owner’s pet Pomeranian.

It rained on the schoolchildren flinging mud at their smallest classmate. Without seeing them, one could never imagine a look of such sadistic malice in such synergy with faces so young.

It rained on the garden of the corner café, meshing the cozy, toasty aromas it emanated with the fresh odor of fallen rain on newly-cut grass.

It rained on the lovers held together by nothing in common but a shared fear of being alone. They kissed desperately, almost as if to drown their sinister thoughts and impulses in their passion.

It rained on the rapturous newlywed couple walking hand in hand from the local church, oblivious to all but their nuptial bliss.

It rained on the half-naked unemployed man reading his eviction notice as he walked, glancing up only to glimpse at the town millionaire’s white house. But he didn’t linger, no, he didn’t need any cop fining him for disturbing the peace on private property.

It rained on the mayor, ruining her thousand-dollar pantsuit and frizzling her neatly-tucked hair.

It rained on the law student suddenly awake from an unintended nap session on his shared patio with three other students. A tort law textbook turned to page 208, now with ink running down the page, falls from his lap as he stands up and slaps his own face to commence another evening of heavy cramming.

It rained on the aspiring musical actress running home from catching a break in the café, eager to resume her vocal training with a new Hamilton songbook.

It rained on the cemetery, eroding the barely-legible epitaphs engraved on the sunken tombstones of the forgotten deceased of times long past.

It rained on the smiling widow watering her petunias. Has she found peace at last?

It rained on all our hearts.

No Time to Write?

If you haven’t realized, I have been posting a lot less frequently as of late. Again, school has started, and I may not be able to post as often. I’ve got too many hard classes and extracurriculars. Also, my posts may not be as high-quality as usual…which I personally despise, but whatevs. But I try to keep posting at least once a month, just to force myself to write something.

But, also, a reason I have not been posting is that I have been working on a potential play, so…there’s that too. It will be growing up. Hopefully I’ll be able to post that soon.

So, yeah, here’s sort of an update on what I’ve been doing for the past couple of months, and…see you next time???

 

We Grew up at Midnight.

The streets are empty. The night is dark. The earth is quiet save for the sound of my own footsteps, meandering through the darkness. I’m kept from falling by nothing but the soft moonlight drifting through the clouds. A couple of stars twinkle in the sky, beckoning my eyes upward. I walk with no aim, no purpose, no reason, save that of pure escape. Now, walking is not a means to an end. It is its own end.

Tomorrow, I’ll have officially seen fifteen summers. So maybe I really haven’t seen enough to judge. But I get this feeling that maybe, just maybe, I’ve seen too much. Of human kindness, human ecstasy, human ambition, human frailty, human sorrow, human hatred, human revenge…humans in general.

And I realized that many people hated me. But I also realized that having one or two people who loved me and a dozen who hated me is better than having nobody at all feel anything at all toward me. The ones who love me make up for anything and everything the ones who hate me can do or say toward me.

And I found out that no matter how hard you work behind the scenes to achieve the amount of success you have, people will step up shamelessly to defame you, crying “dishonest,” “cunt,” “unworthy.” But I also found out that the only reason these pathetic bitches slander other people out of pure spite and jealousy is that deep down, they’re the ones who feel the most empty and unworthy, and only mind others’ business in order to feel better about themselves. And at the end of the day, they’re the reason behind most of the pain, envy, and hatred in the world.

And I found out that the ones you loved and were so good to might be the ones who end up fucking you over. But I only wish that didn’t matter. Because though I shall always remember that “love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love, cannot be killed or swept aside,” how much does it take for one to realize that love indeed is not all you need?

And I realized that I am unconsciously selfish. But it’s not even my intention that I get all stuck on the nitty-gritty and forget sometimes to reach out to others. For what is the point of existence beside to minimize suffering and maximize happiness for every life we touch?

But despite all this, I still have no idea what I’m doing. I still have yet to figure myself out emotionally, socially, mentally…I am anxious and depressed, socially inept, and though people think I’m smart, goddammit I fuckin’ ain’t, at most things. It’s just that many people equate smartness with good grades. Let’s see how wrong they actually are in 10 years.

So I don’t know how to deal with people; goddammit, I don’t even know who I am, what I want to do with my own life, let alone how to enter the lives of others. And I guess that’s okay. I may not grow up at midnight; I may not grow up at twenty-one; I may never grow up. But that’s okay…or so I hope.

An Ode to Talkativeness [Random Rambles]

The more you talk, the better you feel.

I used to be silent, thinking that the more I talked, the more annoying I would be, but then I realized that everybody hated me despite this (or, rather, because of this). So I was like, fuck it, this strategy sure ain’t working, and reading this article cemented my inkling that, no, it really wasn’t working. So I began to talk a bit more. I started by talking to people who didn’t intimidate me, and people with whom I would like to be friends. Then my circle of talkativeness widened, and weirdly, the more I talked, the better I felt. Also, the more I talked, the better I was at talking and having a more interesting personality.

My depression, though it still exists, has not come back to haunt me in the form of suicidal thoughts. My anxiety, though it still exists, has ceased to give me nightmares and panic attacks every day. Though I still get nightmares and panic attacks, they have been toned down and occur less frequently.

I guess talking is just a way to distract yourself, at the end of the day. But you can also make friends along the way, and I guess with mental health issues, the more you can distract yourself healthily, whether it be with schoolwork, work, activities, or hanging out with friends, the better.

I don’t mean that talkativeness is good without bounds – once you hit a certain level, you do get annoying. But I guess if you realize you’re being annoying by talking too much, then that probably means you haven’t yet hit that level. If you’re really annoying, then you don’t ever realize you’re being annoying.

Moreover, a byproduct of being talkative and faking your happiness is that at the end of the day, you really become happier and less vulnerable. Numerous psychological studies suggest that the more you smile, the happier you are. Also, people who are more talkative and less marginalized in society get “fucked over” less – assholes are a bit scared of happy people with lots of friends, might I say.

So, yeah, I guess this concludes my “random rambles” this time, and I now have to go back to being productive. I have a PowerPoint due Tuesday about McCarthyism and the Salem Witch Trials, and I cannot procrastinate more…see you next time.

Summertime Sadness

NOT.

I love the summertime. Maybe it’s the lack of stress and the ability for me to do whatever the fuck I want in these 3 months, or because I don’t have to deal with the annoying kids at my school, or it’s the weather and how it’s always so pretty outside, but the result is that for the past couple of years summer has been the only time when I’m not suicidally depressed. Seriously. Stress, anxiety, and depression build up inside me during the 9 months of the school year, and over the summer, I slowly get better. But by the time I’m 87-ish percent healed, school restarts. Every time. So then I start school in a decent mood, but every year this mood at the start of the school year also gets just a little bit worse, because 3 months is obviously not enough for me to become thoroughly fine again, and my sadness just builds up off of that remainder 13% of sad me.

Also, if you’ve made it thus far, you are a genius. I post this sort of stuff on an anonymous blog mainly because people think I’m fucking insane when I say this to them, and I don’t blame them for it – I’m not very descriptive. And, just for the record, I’m not complaining – I know that I’m extremely privileged, especially compared to, say, the starving kids in rural Ghana.

But anyway, I don’t know if it’s just me, but every single summer I have this dread in the back of my head of school restarting. It’s like an hourglass or a “progress bar” of good times, if you will – you hope to manipulate gravity so that the sand moves more slowly, or even reverses itself, or you hope to somehow hack the computer so that the progress bar stays at 10% instead of inching toward 99%.

And I don’t know about you, but usually after, say, 2-3 weeks of the summer, my life starts going back into a routine. And then the days pass as quickly as the pages in a good novel.

And then school starts back up again.

But, this time, I swear, it’s going to be different…

Commitment Issues


Have you ever had the problem where you have a thousand good ideas but end up starting maybe a hundred and finishing like zero? Well, at least I do.

It’s not because the ideas are boring or difficult or anything like that, but just that half the time I think of a good theme or title…and then get writer’s block when I really sit down to do it. And these commitment issues also apply to other things like school and investment, but just on a lesser scale, probably because these activities are a lot less creativity-intensive.

And, of course, this also applies to people.

I promise myself I’ll spend more time around someone or get to know him/her better, but I almost never follow through on the promise I make myself, not because I don’t want to commence meaningful relationships with good people, but because as soon as I sit/stand next to that said person, I start questioning every word I say and plan for a good “exit strategy.” And somehow I don’t do this consciously…the result, anyway, is my nodding to everything the other party says and then the other party giving me an odd look or asking me if I’m okay because I’m acting so. fucking. weird. (I know it’s weirdly, but bear with me – this is a blog post, not an article or anything that requires perfect grammar).

Also, it’s probably too early for me to even consider this, but the idea of marriage scares me shitless. Actually. Somehow, I can’t stand the idea of “tying the knot” – I just am too scared of ending up with the wrong guy, and getting married simply complicates the process of separation, which, according to the statistics, is quite inevitable…(more than half of American couples eventually get divorced, and out of the ones who don’t get divorced, a decent portion probably aren’t very happy either.). Furthermore, I don’t trust my own ability to trust someone, but that is another topic for another day.

And this even permeates my career choices. The biggest reason I want to go into business is because I can be a businessperson in any field from tech to finance to real estate.

These are just a few examples of situations where I can’t commit to anything. Some others may include the fact that I’m too scared to adopt a pet – I’m scared of being a horrible pet owner and being stuck with inadvertently torturing the poor pet through neglect when I really mean to take care of it. I guess the same goes for any prospects for future children.

But, at any rate, I guess I’m just posting because I don’t know how else to try to resolve this issue – it’s starting to impact every single decision in my life, and it can sometimes make me so indecisive that even the tiniest choices, such as whether to write on topic number 1 or 2 on an essay test, give me a panic attack. But my anxiety is also another topic for another day.