plumsmuseum

[plumsmuseum]

Disgust

There always comes a point in life where you just get sick of yourself. I'm sick of seeing my face in pictures, sick of looking at social media, sick of school, sick of work, sick of chores, sick of food. Just sick of life.

It's a strange thing, diary. To look at your own face and acknowledge the effort you put into your appearance, but being bored of it nonetheless. My friends ask why I don't post the pictures they take of me. Truthfully, I imagine myself scrolling through photos of myself and it makes me want to throw up. Not because I'm ugly, but because I'm just.. tired of it all.

I remember my friends telling me how pretty I looked, and I acknowledged, but.. I really didn't care? I overcompensated and made jokes about how attractive I am, but I would say them and feel resentful. I think I feel like no matter how I look on the outside I would still be sick of myself. Those kinds of comments don't make me happy anymore. I'm just sick of it diary. Sick and resentful. But why?

Maybe I thought improving on my looks would make me happier, and it just ended up making me feel pressured. Maybe I thought it'd fix my problems. Maybe I thought it would make people like me, and I'm disappointed that it doesn't. Maybe I'm just a little sick of everything.

[plumsmuseum]

2024

It is December 31st, 2024.

This year I have achieved beyond my expectations. Academically I have done well, but my career had expanded exponentially. I found myself doing things I never thought I would have the opportunity to do.

I have established a stable routine for myself, and had become the girl I always wanted to be: clean, tidy, conscientious, and present. I make time for myself, and I enjoy it thoroughly. I always leave at least one day to be alone with myself. I often go on solo adventures, walks, and experiences.

I have continued to meet new people and extend my social circle. I am in a relationship. It is a beautiful one, with someone I could only dream of being with. I am very lucky.

I have become even more like myself, and have continued finding parts of myself in living. I am so very in love with myself.

I am once again getting ready to countdown the new year surrounded with the people I love. I'm so excited for what the new year will bring me, and can only feel grateful and humbled by the growth I have experienced. 2024 was a year of peace and calm, and 2025 will bring even more good blessings.

#diary entry #happynewyear2024

[plumsmuseum]

To a Friend

There will come a day when you have no choice but to grow. There will come a day when your mortality precedes your privilege. Then, you must do what is uncomfortable, no matter how sensitive you are. When that time comes, I will watch. I will pray for you, silently. I will grieve for you, as I have grieved for myself when I realised that I have no choice but to grow. No choice but to change. But for now, you are young. For now, you think it beneficial to voice out every thought. For now, you are egotistical. For now, you are self-centered. For now, you were very much like me.

[plumsmuseum]

Some Scars

You're in everything, you know. Black coffee. Orange peels. Cigarettes. Candy. Flower shops. You're in my bowl of noodles. You're in my breath, in my chest. You are especially evident in my loneliness. In my crying in bed, to my counselor, in a shut up toilet cubicle trying to get away from it all. You are there in my anxiety, in my fears, in my grief, in my nightmares.

You are there when I feel I'll be alone forever. When I feel unlovable. When I feel worthless.

But you are also there in my sweetest happiness'. Every blessing I receive reminds me how much you would have taken it away from me and how much you would have wished it upon me at the same time. You are there, in my dreams, in my caring, in my love, in my beloved.

Isn't it funny. I have spent the longest time cursing your name. Spitting it out through gritted teeth and priding myself for tolerating and having resilience despite the pain you put me through, and yet you plague my every waking moment, every thought, every action, every belief, everything. You haunt me like a ghost. You are everywhere. I couldn't shake you off me if I tried. I'm not sure I even want to.

How complicated we are, hm? I'm still not sure if you hated me as much as you loved me.

I suppose that's what you get as your legacy. I suppose we're even now, if you hated me, then I get to remember you as horrible. It would be, if I remember you entirely as a wretched man. But you're not. You are kind and good, you were one of my loves, you were my whole world. And I loved you, so very much that this world, this massive expanse of sea and land and skies that stretch over my heart has nowhere to go. It was for you, and now you are gone, and the lands and seas keep growing, but my life can't keep up. It consumes me. Where do I put it now?

[plumsmuseum]

A lesson

The pain I feel is not about this man, not really. The pain I feel is prehistoric, a shard that nestled into my body as soon as I was born, and had nestled further as I continued to grow, my organs twist and writhe around it, it’s stabbing me, poking me.

His inconsistency makes me feel needy. My neediness makes me feel pathetic. I wonder, now. I’m already beautiful. I sure think so. But I still feel worthless. Figures. If I hadn’t had my mental illness, my neediness, my anxiety, my desperation for support, would I have everything I wanted?

If I just.. didn’t care. If I had not a care in the world, would I be charming? Friendly? Would I finally be lovable?

I don’t want to be angry, diary. I don’t want to be sad, or enraged, or handle the situation with any sort of dejection, any sort of hurt. That’s almost as bad as begging. I want to handle the situation with grace. Spitting anger does not benefit me, resentment does not benefit me. The man is, after all, not as insignificant as anyone else. He has just as much potential of being good, and sweet, and kind. I will not say it’s my fault for being easily affected. Nor will I say it’s his fault for being confusing. To me, it just is. Connection with another just will or won’t. Just because we have mutual fantasies and delusions doesn’t give me the right to be mad at anyone. Not even myself. It just is. Being sad, I can understand. But I refuse to let it control my behaviour. That’s not okay to me.

So I wonder now, if I were well. How good would that be? If I weren’t so easily overwhelmed. If I wasn’t neurotic. If I didn’t have the family that I have. If my dad wasn’t the way he was. Wouldn’t that be grand?

Instead, I wept like a child last night. I’m grieving, still. For the things I could have been. For my potential. For the child that had this shard of pain inserted into her. I sat in the train, tears silently streaming down my face. I walked back home, the wind whipping my hair back, tears still flowing. I closed my door, heaved a sigh. My body melted to the floor, my mouth let out a few whimpers. My façade shattered, I started trembling, body wracking with sobs. I laid there for a while, still whimpering.

I used to be terrified of days like these. I do so much to avoid getting to this point. But today, I am here. I am alive. Eating a leftover pastry I placed in the fridge. The custard has hardened, the bread is stale. It dries my mouth. I carry a hot cup of tea to my lips. It singes my fingers. I let them. I’m craving a bit of heat. A bit of warmth. Anything that touches.

Objectively. Here’s what I should learn from it all. Maybe not that I get attached too easy. Maybe not that men are horrible. But maybe just that it is or it isn’t.  It will or it won’t. That I have no control. That the only thing I can do, even if I were sad, even if I were rejected, even if something I was terrified of has happened, even when I am soft and needy and human, is to sit down. Eat. Drink something warm. Take a shower. Find some silence. Go on a walk. And it will help, even if it’s just a little bit. The warmth, though not removing the sharp stab of pain inside, will instead just make it easier. It will make me move. It will make me appreciate. And for now, for forever, actually. That’s all I can do.

[plumsmuseum]

Be Good

Never had an affinity to poetry. Rhyming words makes me feel careless and sloppy, like something only a child would do. I write factually, wonderingly, some would say boringly.

But I enjoy it. I have a liking for it, an attachment. It’s familiar, and it gets the job done without seeming too pompous and snooty. Poetry, on the other hand, had always borderlined between brilliant and eye-rollingly nauseating. Mediocrity shines bright in the skill of writing poetry. Maybe that’s why I don’t like it. It’s harder to hide.

But you make me want to write. You’ve given me something, something more than inspiration. You’ve given me a reminder of all the things I told myself I would do “after”, a reminder of someone I used to be. After studying, after working, after exercising, after excelling, after doing what I feel is expected of me. You’ve given me competition to express myself. How wonderfully convenient for my self progress.

Sometimes I fear my intensity. I fear how silent and strict and how severe I can be. I don’t write poetry for that, partly. Emotion, especially those of the utmost sincerity, is frowned upon when it isn’t expressed right. Partly by others, largely by myself. I must be good, and it scares me how I can be that way.

[plumsmuseum]

2023

It is December 31st, 2023. I am getting ready to count down the new year while I am surrounded with the people I love.

This year, I have met several new people. I have stopped becoming as scared of social situations. Relationships are not something I fear anymore.

This year, I worked on creating side income with my many talents. I also worked on my clubs, and had organized several events. I've made quite a name for myself, and I've done my job well.

This year, I excelled academically. I made time to study and never felt rushed for a deadline. I have organized plans to study abroad next year, and all is going swimmingly.

I am self-assured. I have developed, socially, intellectually, financially, mentally, and physically. I have created plenty of new and healthy habits. I dress the way I want. I wear makeup when I want. I love who I am.

This year, I had loved and been loved to the highest count.

2023 had been kind to me. I know the future holds something even brighter.

#newyear2023 #journal #diary entry #writing

[plumsmuseum]

So This Is Love?

I, in my 21 years of living, admit that I have never once held a hand, or maybe even shared a glimpse romantically. I've heard and fantasized about the kind of high school romance you'd see in a cheesy rom-com, or read from sickly sweet novels with overly gratuitous proclamations of love, intensity, and desire, of course (who hasn't!), but I never really believed I was worth enough to be loved like that.

And so, I went about my life as I had, believing I was incapable and unworthy of romance. I thought I was "an old soul" within the throes of a society favoring hookup culture as opposed to the traditional, pride and prejudice style "declaration of passionate love in the rain" I was so exposed to as a child. I thought I was too different to be understood, and I felt very, very lonely because of it.

Thinking back on it, I feel like a self-obsessed idiot for thinking that I could be so, completely unique that no one else, amongst the 7 billion people could ever relate to me. While I improved myself, and healed, I realized that everyone was as equally flawed as I was. It was a relief.

So, I thought to myself one day, "If I really am so curious about love and romance, what would be the harm in getting a dating app and exploring the market?". And so, I did. Mostly also because I wanted to get rid of all the anxiety and shyness that swept through me whenever I was near a man. It was getting a little difficult to see myself with someone if I can't even bring myself to look at the opposite sex.

I downloaded and swiped, and felt quite gross for judging people so brashly and with such ease. Truthfully, there really is no way of knowing if I'd ever actually click with someone before meeting them. I realized this then, but this will play a bigger part in the story later.

So, I matched with a few people, ignored some because of sheer overwhelm, and made uncomfortable small talk about hobbies, current studies or work, and... fruit. I cringe at the small talk, even weeks after I had initiated it.

Eventually, someone had asked me on a date. I had clearly voiced my boundary of staying friends, but we agreed to meet anyways. The meeting was painfully awkward. I mentioned my discomfort, and my date ever-so-graciously laughed in my face and stayed as quiet as possible so he could, and I quote, "watch me squirm".

Despite that, he was nice. Told me to slow down and take my time when I was running late, offered me a ride back to my sister's house, which I was staying at for the night, and consistently gave me little compliments throughout the night. Men aren't as scary and mean as I had thought. I'm glad it happened.

Even so, throughout the date I was.. a different version of myself. I was anxious and nervous, and giggled like a child, my voice high-pitched and soft, just because I was so shaky. I wrote afterwards that I had never felt as vulnerable and girlish as I had in quite a long time. Truthfully, I think that part of me should be more apparent in daily life. My femininity was an old, friendly, but socially non-existent aspect of my personality that would be good to rekindle.

I ended the night on a high. I'm not sure if it's because of the pride I had for myself for doing something hard, the adrenaline that comes from meeting someone new, or the excitement from a potential love interest in my life. I don't think it's the last one.

The date had reminded me of my competence. It made me see myself from my date's perspective; ditzy and giggly, but lovable nonetheless. Lovable. I saw myself as lovable. First time for everything, hey? But it sparked something in me. I see myself as someone worthy and capable of intimacy. I pictured myself and him in a relationship and realized that it is likely to happen, if I so choose. I realized that I had romantic potential. And I had never, ever, saw myself as someone who was capable of being in a relationship. It changed my perspective, very rapidly, very immediately, and very overwhelmingly.

Along with it came the "evaluation". The guy was nice, but we didn't have the same humor, or interests, or really much at all in common I think. The evaluation of my date, along with the small talk I had on the dating app, also woke me up to what I wanted from my relationships.

I wanted quiet, calm, and peace. I wanted someone to talk to, who would understand my neuroticism, and why I take the steps I do to prevent it. I wanted to call someone while crying over a documentary. I want someone to be as soft with me as I would be to them. Intimacy. I wanted intimacy, and support.

Which doesn't have to exist solely from men.

The bumble date made me realize I wanted to be more authentic. I wanted to dress differently and act differently as I usually do. I want to be more quiet and calm, as I usually am when I'm alone. I no longer want to hide behind a guise of friendliness. I want to wear dramatic makeup.

The bumble date made me more at peace with the abundance of love I have now, and the realization that the intimacy I craved can also come from my friends and family, if I so choose to initiate. It made me realize that I push people away because I fear getting too close. It made me realize that I actually can ring people up, or tell them about my issues, or let myself cry in front of them, as long as I make the choice to.

The bumble date made me more aware of the fact that I had been governed under the motivation to be loved for a very long time. By everyone, friends, boys, my own family. It made me realize that, even if I care about the people around me deeply, I draw a line between myself and others, never really letting anyone close. I realize that my adamant desire and drive to get people to love me was a ploy. I don't think I ever should have cared. After meeting someone new, with no attachments to any of my social circles, I realized how sick I am of socializing. How tired I am of trying to convince other people of who i am. I realized that I don't know who i am. And I realized that i really, really wanted to.

I do want love. And I do want a relationship. But I want to be happy with who I am and who I'm with, first and foremost. I think for now, I'll focus on allowing myself to just be, and allow myself to do kind things for the people in my life. The rest will come if that's what's in the cards for me.

#diary entry #writing #journal

[plumsmuseum]

Selfishness

Achieving is a very lonely endeavor.

As pompous as that sounds (and it does sound very pompous!), I'm not talking about some "misunderstood genius that's lonely because no one can fully grasp the true essence of their brilliance" bullshit. I'm not talking about that.

Because I'm not a genius. Achieving for me is doing my laundry today. It's making myself hot chocolate because I have period pains. It's getting myself to sleep without crying again. These "achievements" are so domestic, and so repetitive and docile and utterly normal that it is barely considered an achievement for most. And that's exactly why it's so fucking lonely.

It's taken me a long time to come to terms with the fact that I actually am a survivor of emotional trauma, and that I actually am deserving of love, and kindness, and happiness, but it's going to take so much more time to actually tell people about it. Being a uni student and also being who I am makes living very uncomfortable. On one hand, I really, really, thirst for the escapades of youth that I had missed out on in high school. On the other, I'm also desperately trying to heal and repair myself. And doing reckless, immature, and irresponsible actions a normal university student would regularly do would in turn demolish any control I have over maintaining my healing habits. Exercising regularly, meditation, spending time by myself, all dwindles if I were to run towards my desire for recklessness. I can't have it all.

And I can see it, even now, you know. I, in my not-yet-fully-healed state, can identify the pauses of silence when I have nothing to contribute about my friends' discussion about boys, partying, fun. I don't know anything about it. I don't think I'm meant to share my stories, that are so grim and serious and opposing of fun to my friends, who are light and happy and concern themselves with boys and parties and clubs without having the same crushing anxiety that I do. I can't say "my grandma is a chronically anxious, fearmongering and foul-mouthed woman that feeds me more and more reasons to be terrified of the world", or "my mother is a narcissistic schizophrenic who wants her children to care for her when she is unable to care for anyone else but her own wants", or "I have so much unspoken anger and resentment for my father, whom I loved, but treated me with such little concern for my mental well being that his death both stranded me and relieved me all at once", or "I have grown up so ambitious in such a neurotically chaotic environment that I have no idea how to be a real person" in normal conversation. When people ask, I can only say that I love my family. Which is true.

I can't tell them how afraid I am. I can't share my emotions. I am single-handedly refusing attempts at strengthening relationships because of my fear of vulnerability. I am preventing my friends from feeling as loved as they make me feel.

I am selfish.

#diary entry #writing

[plumsmuseum]

21

"Happy birthday!"

I woke up and waddled my way out of my room, where I was greeted with shouts, red eggs, and red packets.

"Thanks", I say, putting a polite smile onto my face.

It's my 21st. I was looking forward to it. I was thinking that this had been the best year I've had in a long while. This birthday, will be one to remember. It will be unlike all the other past birthdays. I won't feel anxious this year. I won't feel unseen this year. I won't feel numb, or bittersweet, or resentful. I can finally feel the way my peers did on their birthdays. I would feel loved, and appreciated, and valued.

The morning and afternoon glided by. I had been packing things for a move coming up. I've been submitting assignments, doing presentations, stressing out at my group mates. It had not been a very bad birthday so far. But I was waiting for tonight. My birthday dinner.

We would go get hotpot, we would eat tiramisu cake, which I had been craving the whole year. We would have a nice evening. I'll be full, happy, and content.

So we get there, to a restaurant my mom had decided on (which wasn't the one I wanted), and I was greeted with a cake my mother had bought (which I didn't want). This was all fine to me. Then we started eating.

This was a hotpot buffet, and everyone could grab whatever vegetable or condiment or other foods they so desired. My mom had invited her friends and relatives she was close with. Again, I had no say in this, but again, I was fine with it. I ate in polite silence.

After I had finished eating, my mom's friends and relatives had heaps of food left on their dishes. They then gestured to us, "here, eat these! We don't want them anymore!". As we all knew before eating, we were charged a serving with every 100 grams of food left on the table. There were two huge bowls left.

So, the rest of my night was spent stuffing myself full of food, trying not to vomit, while my mom and her friends and relatives cackled around me. They felt comfortable. They felt content. They enjoyed themselves. I felt like I was watching through a window. They kept telling my siblings and I to continue eating, and eating, and eating.

My mom watched as I ate. "How much weight do you think you've gained this year?" she asked.

"How the hell would I know" I replied.

She snickered.

I continued eating. I just wanted to go home.

When we did, I unboxed my cake. The tiramisu my mom bought was nothing like what I was looking forward to. I wanted biscuits soaked in coffee, with cream in the middle. The tiramisu she bought was lined with cake, hardly any cream, and just in poor quality.

I'm not too sure why, but this hit me the most. I'd been looking forward to this cake all year. My one request. I stared at the cake, the cake stared back. I was... fine with it. The cake was fine.

It just.. kind of symbolized everything that I was looking forward to on my 21st. I was doing better, feeling more awake than I ever have, surrounded by more people who loved me than I have ever had in my life.

And I was still feeling like this. I was still celebrating with the same people who I'm sure do not give a damn about me. I'm still getting degraded and made fun of. I'm still around my fucking mother.

I really wanted my 21st to feel different than my other birthdays. I guess I'm just sad that I still feel the way I do every other birthday. Sadder and older, and still at the same place.

#writing #diary entry #journal