I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.
An acquaintance likes to comment that I have a slave mentality as opposed to their own rebel mentality. I don’t remember who called me that first, and sometimes I doubt its veracity given that many people would immediately point out I’m not a black slave in a seventeenth-century colony—rather, I have various privileges, for example computer access and the ability to post freely on this website without my parents stopping me. They would certainly be quick to point out that the inaccurate hyperbole implicitly insults historical slaves, meaning I’m an ignorant racist who deserves to suffer. It’s why I tend not to comment on or identify with any movement despite agreeing with large parts of progressivism. It’s why I never use the word ‘trauma’ in relation to myself: first, the word is a psychological term and I can’t self-diagnose; and second, I can’t justify the use of that word when people challenge me and ask whether I’ve suffered as much as others.
My dissociative self is and has always been defined in relation to others, hence my use of ‘not-trauma’, an originally passive-aggressive phrase that grew into a genuine reflection of the way that my perspectives are defined through the lens of others’ trauma. I’ll try to avoid making this a sob story, but I want to vent about certain aspects of my past and explain why everything still/always/consistently feels pointless. I recognise that my current interpretation of things is likely heavily biased, since introspection is shaped by one’s sociopolitical opinions and personal circumstances, and I may change it in the future. Here goes a review of my past, for the umpteenth time.
I was born into a middle-class Asian family. I wouldn’t say they were particularly strict, but they did demand a certain openness from me and controlled my schedule. I also remember throwing intense tantrums and being hit with clothes-hangers, which remains possibly the main source for my traumafics. I think I found difficulty with socialising because my parents sent me to some socialising courses, I recall I harassed some of my classmates, and my parents considered getting me an autism diagnosis. My few friendships usually fizzled out, and anybody close to me will know what I mean when I gesture vaguely at Mina.
My school’s expectations were quite high, and it seemed everybody around me was doing well. The liberal IB curriculum focused on teaching us how to think, and we had to fill out structured documents to be graded against vaguely defined rubrics—I still remember how we were generally expected to get a 5-6 despite 3-4 being a technically “sufficient” grade, and we had the sense that a 7-8 was completely achievable if we just tried hard enough. Whenever I was falling behind, my mother tried to teach me or send me to tutoring, not to mention that I was pushed to join various activities like martial arts, Scouting, and drumming not because I wanted to but because my parents convinced me.
I think that has influenced how I view things: the burden of proof is always on me. If I can’t prove that my decision is better—and I can’t, because I’m inherently less experienced and less intelligent than the people I argue against—then I am obligated to follow the other person’s decision. That’s why it’s very hard for me to talk to people without viewing the conversation as a conflict, getting angry and fearful that they wish to control me, and blaming myself if I am unable to “win” the conversation.
For example, my mother likes to emphasise that she cares about my health. But this is sufficiently vague that she can control pretty much anything I do: what I eat and drink, and when; what I wear; what sports I should do, and how much, at what time; when I should go out, and during what weather; when I sleep and wake up, in what bed with what curtains and blankets; what products I use for cleaning; when I go to sleep; and essentially anything that’s even tangentially related to mental health. A similar story can be told for any sort of focus, such as building character, making me realise the value of money, or even just them wanting to eat somewhere else—I have a mental blankness when I’m asked what I want to eat because I have always been told what I should eat or what my parents want to eat.
It’s not only patronising but depressing: I end up not getting out of bed, or eating, or buying anything for myself, because I’m scared that my parent will criticise me as they so often do. Not to mention that when I am forced to do such things I can’t make any changes to my life or even try to be happier, because any sign of that the parent will take as confirmation that their control is right—in other words, I purposely have to be an ass to them and express my discomfort to get them to stop, otherwise they’ll just keep pushing against me until they humiliate me through better argument.
School is a similar story. I still remember looking forward to school because my Saturday was cadet corps and my Sunday was washing the car with my dad—it was the only time when I could get out of the house. But it wasn’t much better because my school constantly shoved empty speeches and required reading down our throats, “recommending” us to think about things a certain way, then when we decide to choose our own path, criticising us for not following those recommendations at the first sign of struggle or low grades. And even when I did all that, I was told to add more detail or do more work. My only escape came from reading articles and watching YouTube videos.
And then, when I used Discord for the first time—and realised how many people were depressed and suicidal… I want to say that my mom telling me to go to sleep, the person in control of my life glaring at me and hating me, as I tried to stop someone from killing themselves was terrifying, but I don’t know if that’s worth such a heavy word. Nonetheless, I think that if I were in that situation again I’d blow up. I wouldn’t be able to handle that, not when I have so much not-trauma related to the Herberge and Lacey. I’d just kill her and/or kill myself. And I still have a 2022 picture of the rooftop to prove that the method was there.
It’s why I find it so hard to exist in this apartment with my mother. She was quite aggressive when I attempted suicide, telling me that she felt I didn’t care about her, I didn’t leave any message, I didn’t communicate that I was struggling in uni, and so on. We’ve had arguments before where she’s criticised me for spending too much time online, implying that she watches my expressions when I type—for most of my life I’ve used my computer in the living room. So it’s like- at what point will we both boil over? I know this is stressful for her too. I know that the only reason she’s giving me any leeway is because I have problems. I know that there is nothing keeping me sane because Mina is gone and Lacey is gone and Nayuta is gone, and because I can’t hold a server for more than a few months without feeling chained to it and deleting it.
Sometimes I think that a job would improve my mood, due to a combination of financial independence, feeling of success, and feeling of growth. However, I think I would simply be trading one collar for another. I wouldn’t gain financial independence from my parents for at least another several years, given the required experience these days and rising housing prices—not to mention that I’d still be financially dependent on the industry and its executives if I didn’t want to literally go homeless and starve to death. I wouldn’t gain a feeling of success when my every move is watched by a manager and I’d be sacrificing the majority of my time to things I consider mundane and even immoral (I’m taking a marketing degree for context). I wouldn’t gain a feeling of growth because that’s the same thing I told myself when moving from primary to middle to high to university, and I still mentally feel like I’m a middle schooler required to follow everyone else’s demands. Can I really last that long just for something I don’t even want?
…next February, it’ll be half a decade since Gold, so I wonder if I’ll renew my vow. There’s nothing I live for. I do want good food, a clean house, and fast internet; but I don’t live for the prospect of those things, and in any case one could argue they’re basic human rights or a common definition of good living conditions rather than personal desires per se. I constantly flip-flop between imagining myself as the genius saviour of humanity and a mortal that will only achieve feeling more pain. Focusing on relationships doesn’t work because I hurt people and dissociate. I can’t do anything for charity other than be a replaceable meatbag carrying things around. Even art is, as people often point out to me, just self-delusion.
Since that March on the roof, I haven’t accomplished anything. I can’t justify my existence, which I need to do because I’ve hurt people and because I’m just a cog of society. I don’t know if I’ve felt anything that has made this all worth it.
But none of this matters, anyway. My life, time, and emotion have never been my own—they belong to some vague sense of society, family, and capitalism all rolled into one, and I only have that because it was so kind to offer me trades and privileges. Perhaps I don’t even have the right to commit suicide, as my mother implied to me.
I swore life to Mina to escape that, then I promised time to the Herberge and Lacey, and perhaps I gave emotion to Woolgathering; and I may not have had the right to do so. Regardless of the true owner, I believed that something given cannot be taken back without their decision—pitting need against need, like someone stealing from the rich to give to the poor. Then again, maybe their cutting ties is proof of rejection that obligates me to take it back.
The Fillet event was netorase, a recognition that I’m replaceable. I want to say I don’t know, but I know that’ll just be another opportunity for people to say that’s evidence of me overthinking and needing them to step in. I’d argue that’s simply a wish to clearly communicate rather than an argument from consequences.
Meh. I might add tags to my Neocities to fish for views and compliments, though the last time I tried that it didn’t make me happier.