Don’t Take Your Health for Granted.

Full stop.

In today’s day and age, science has advanced to a point where many people do not worry anymore about their day-to-day mortality risk. And I was one of them, until today.

As a 15-year-old living in the U.S., my biggest quotidian worries are grades, extracurriculars, my social life (or lack thereof) and, of course, a certain someone of the opposite sex. So, it isn’t surprising that I 1) don’t drink nearly enough water, 2) am in a state of constant emotional misery and stress, and 3) have a horrible sleep schedule.

And all this takes a physiological toll. I have had stomach, digestion, and stool issues for the past six to eight months, a cold for the past three weeks, and sporadic dizziness, fainting, lightheadedness, chest pain, and nausea. Yes, yes, a lot to handle at once. But long story short, all this culminated in a vomit session today halfway through a difficult-ass test, and, thanks to the powers that be, I was allowed to go home for the day.

So my mother drove me to the hospital, where they did the usual weight measurements, blood pressure and heart rate measurements, etc. Turns out my heart is racing at a speed that is too fast for my age, probably because of the above-said factors. According to doctor’s orders, I should have one sound chunk of sleep instead of breaking it up into two naps, drink a HELL of a lot more water, and always have a snack in my bag just in case I pass out.

The doctor recommended a counselor center to me, saying that 50 to 60 percent of all Americans at some point in life have issues with stress, anxiety, and depression. I probably have issues with all three.

Well, such is life. I’ll do a more artistic post when I feel more in the mood for it.

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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…

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…

i want to be 2 forever.

There. I said it.

All I want for life is just an endless supply of hugs, stuffed animals, food, & sleep. No kidding. I’ll be extremely satisfied if I have that, and, maybe to boot, not being judged for being honest & emotional. I don’t even want anything else at this point – studying, work, other people’s good opinions…fuck those pretentious fakes anyways.

I don’t even know what’s wrong with me – every teen I know wants to grow up, but I don’t.

I don’t want more freedom, if it means more responsibility.

I don’t want to be taken seriously, if it means having to be mature.

And it’s not because I get bad grades or am a failure currently. Somehow I have a cumulative 4.1 GPA, got a 5 (“extremely well qualified,” highest possible score) on my AP Euro exam (the only AP exam I’ve ever taken, b/c my school only lets us take 1 AP course in our sophomore year), & am just generally “smart,” “hard-working” & a “very successful student,” at least per my teachers. But I wonder how much I really like studying & that sort of shit when the only time I’m not extremely depressed is during the summer when I don’t have to study…

And I don’t want to “take the world by storm”…all I want is to make enough money to retire early & live out the rest of my life in a little cottage in Provence, southern France (if you haven’t been there, it’s breathtakingly beautiful) with a hundred stuffed animals & maybe a hamster or two. I don’t want to get married, and I despise the idea of having kids even more. I don’t even know what the fuck is wrong with me by this point. I guess I just hate commitment – I can’t commit to a single guy, I can’t commit to a single pet (I like hamsters because they have like 1-2 year lifespans), and I can’t commit to a single job (which is why I’m currently freelancing & will probably go into business, as you can be a business leader in basically any field from real estate to finance to tech to cosmetics), just like I can’t commit to anything else in my life.

Which Way Is Right, Which Way Is Wrong?

The road to success has been described by various successful people in varying lights, various authors to “bibles to a successful life” claim to know the exact way to success, and parents, relatives, and old people alike often offer (quite unsolicited) advice on this matter. My question: which of these people is/are right, and when?

I know that the road to success varies for everyone, as does the definition of the word itself, but the people who write these various “success bibles” probably don’t realize this fact. Or maybe they do, and prefer to not acknowledge it.

I’m not saying that I don’t read success bibles: in fact, I’ve read multiple biographies of successful people (Steve Jobs, Elon Musk, Warren Buffett) and want to read more, mostly just for the hell of it but also to try to figure my own life out – not that I want to model mine after theirs, but just because I want to get some “inspo,” if you get my drift.

But my chief complaint is that these success stories oftentimes contradict each other (e.g. Buffett: “the 1st rule to making money is to not lose money; the 2nd rule is to never forget the 1st rule.” vs. Don Keough (former President of Coca-Cola) in The 10 Commandments of Business Failure: “If you quit taking risks, you will fail.”). I know that what works for someone may not work for someone else, but for a confused 14-year-old who still doesn’t know what the fuck I’m going to do with my life ((starving) artist? (starving) writer? (hopefully not starving) businessperson/financier?), that is pretty hard to digest.

However, the bright side is that at least I get to decide my own path – I get some freedom to write my own story, essentially, whether it be of success or failure.

BUT here’s another complaint: notwithstanding the fact that biographers oftentimes exaggerate certain aspects of their biographees, all of these supposedly successful people already had some marking/special characteristics by the time they’re 14, and I’ve done NOTHING special…it really makes me doubt whether I’ll ever do anything special with my life…

END OF RANT

I’ve Got 35 Questions Why

  1. Why don’t I have a dog?
  2. Why would anyone not like art?
  3. Why is Twitter so. fucking. addicting?
  4. Why does milk taste so horrible?
  5. Why are some people considered cute, others sexy, and others plain/ugly?
  6. Why is the legal age for adulthood 21? (I would like to know just what the fuck was going on in those legislators’ minds when they decided 21, not 24, not 27, not 18, not 16, not 13, was the magical age where everyone matures into a full-fledged adult.)
  7. Why do school lunches taste so bad?
  8. Why are all furry animals so adorable?
  9. Why are some people perceived as smarter than average?
  10. Why are people so inhibited all the time?
  11. Why are fantasy books so popular among so many people?
  12. Why would anyone not like cheese baked spinach?
  13. Why exactly do some people get so. fucking. filthy. rich? (I know every single billionaire probably has some different answer to this question, & I’ve read up a bunch on quite a few of these people, but still…)
  14. Why do people gossip about each other so much?
  15. Why are there people who don’t like Hawaiian pizza?
  16. Why is the world always in a natural state of competition?
  17. Why do people’s lives get so centered around worrying?
  18. Why are most country’s currencies made out of paper/cloth fiber instead of something more durable, like the Australian plastic notes?
  19. Why are so many people so satisfied with mediocrity?
  20. Why does nobody seem to understand me?
  21. Why does my social situation seem to get worse the more that I try to make it better?
  22. Why are some people just naturally charming and socially competent?
  23. Why do so many people use and love snapchat so much?
  24. Why is the legal working age 16? (Again, I would like to know just what the fuck was going on in those legislators’ minds…)
  25. Why do I stress so much over the tiniest details of life?
  26. Why can’t I be like the people I admire?
  27. Why is life so short, yet so long at the same time?
  28. Why do most people never live life to its fullest, then regret everything when they’re 89 and toothless and the lights are about to be turned out?
  29. Why have I always been an outcast to society?
  30. Why do so many people’s lives seem so great on the outside while they’re falling apart on the inside?
  31. Why do we all get laughed at when we try to be our real imperfect selves instead of putting on thick masks of fake perfection, like society forces us to do?
  32. Why are everyone’s lives the exact same, except for maybe some tiny minutiae of names and specific events?
  33. Why do we all have to be alive then, because lives exactly the same to those of our own have already been lived so many times over and are still being lived by everyone, everywhere around us?
  34. Why is life like this?
  35. Why? Just why the fuck…?

I Used to Actually Give a Shit [Rant Version]

I can’t anymore.

This has been bugging me for the past I don’t know how long, but I feel I finally have to get it out. Long story short, I don’t think I actually give a shit about anything anymore.

Almost all the people I have ever known have turned out to be fakes, and now I’ve lost approximately 99% of my faith in humanity.

I used to try to change my personality so that more people would like me more. Now I simply can’t give a shit – first off, no matter how much I change my personality, people will hate me; and second, no matter how much people smile to your face, half of them will stab you in the back.

And if you didn’t know, that fucking hurts.

But to get to the beginning of all this…

I’ve spent my entire life on the margins of society. At five years old, I was that one kid with whom nobody wanted to play. At ten years old, I was that one kid who talked about things in which nobody in my age group was interested. At fourteen years old, I’ve still never hung out outside of school with a single person.

I’ve always tried to get people to like me, to make friends, to get the people I love to love me back. But I’ve never actually succeeded in any of these attempts – I shit you not when I say that literally everything hates me; I’ve never had an acquaintance you can call a friend until a couple years earlier, and I cannot actually even talk to this aforementioned “friend,” because whenever I talk to her about anything that’s not G-rated, she immediately changes the subject to Disney or something equally innocent; also, I suspect that I’ve never earned the love of anybody.

So here’s my dilemma.

People think I have a perfect life – I get the best grades in class, get medals from what they think are big, important, statewide competitions, have made money from business and stock ventures, am the youngest one in our entire high school, have a seemingly good family, and have lived in and traveled to many different places, so why wouldn’t they think that? To make matters worse, I think I somehow am scared of ripping that mask off and telling them my life isn’t a bed of roses either (b/c some are currently jealous, and I’d rather let them be that way than look down upon me?), which means I can never talk to them about my problems, and which is also exactly why I blog – if I never let this out, I will physically explode in tears. As things are right now, I’ve never cried in public.

What people don’t know, anyways, is that all of my success comes from my insecurity and mental/emotional issues.

They don’t realize that while a small lack of confidence just leads to shy or awkward behavior, its complete nonexistence can make a person accomplish things other people would only associate with successful, confident people at the helm of society. They don’t realize that completely insecure people feel such a strong need to prove to both themselves and the rest of the world that they are actually not worthless and that to do so, they work themselves to the brink of exhaustion if only toward achieving that depthless end.

And to make matters worse, there oftentimes is no ceiling to this sick ambition.

If you have all A’s, you don’t feel adequate until you get all A+’s. If you have all A+’s, you don’t feel adequate until you are the best orator in the class. If you are the best orator in the class, you don’t feel adequate until you are the best orator in the nation. If you are the best orator in the nation, you don’t feel adequate until you make a million dollars. If you have a million dollars, you don’t feel adequate until you have a billion.

So…yeah. Sadly there’s always room for improvement, and that means that there’s always ways of pointing out to myself that I’m not good enough.

Also, on an off note, because I’m so scared of loving him, I’ve noticed I’m pretty mean to the guy I’m crushing on…which is really okay, because 1) he’s more or less a fuckboy, and 2) I am almost positive he hates me.

By the way, the people who really bother me aren’t the ones who say to your face they hate you; instead, the ones that bother me the most are the ones who are nice to your face and stab you in the back. Can’t everyone be at least courageous enough to not be such a multi-faced fake? Moreover, what irritates me is that society tells people to be “polite” ever since they’re young, setting them up for this type of asshole-ish, confusing behavior later on in life.

When some kid in my class tried to kill herself a couple weeks ago, I was sort of shocked, but now, after reflecting on everything, it’s not really a surprise why she decided to do that. I still feel bad for her and would help her if I could, but now I understand why. I think I might really understand why she did it.

But all this doesn’t mean I don’t have a heart – I think I do, it’s just that after certain experiences, you just can’t love anymore, unless if you count that type of twisted love-hate as genuine love.