I didn't want to cry in public, so I wrote something.

It has been an exceptional month, with a lot of emotions. A couple of notable things: I finished reading my very first novel (non-fiction) and started out with another two more new books. I have honestly never found reading to be this soothing, so that's nice. Everything in school is so far in order; and everything in life is, as always, in chaos. Also, just won a Negative's 10th Anniversary Tote Bag in a lucky draw; absolutely thrilled and celebrated it with 3 Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

Of course, as per usual, I am only here writing to cope with my anxiety attack that came up out of nowhere. I know what's up, this time at least. As I catch a bird's eye view of the lagoon every weekday, thinking of reasons to drop out of my computer science course, there is also another invasive thought that drops by to say hi every half hour. They usually come in quotes of my brother's words: "You're the most useless sister ever.", "You deserve all your sicknesses.", "Of all the things I have done for you, ungrateful piece of shit.", "Fake ass bitch." These few were my 'favorites' because I could never get rid of them from my thought. And here feels like the perfect spot to slide in a quote about thoughts:

“The greatest weapon against stress is our ability to choose one thought over another.” - William James

There is no need for me to act tough in this space, or else this would be pointless. I am, obviously, unable to choose not to overthink everything he said. All the induced self-doubt and sadness are inevitable, and of course, followed by stress. Sure, every normal relationship will embrace lots of fights and arguments; but I just can't seem to handle all these personal attacks. That's because those are words said I ritually recite to myself all the time. I am unapologetically useless, undeserving of happiness, in-genuinely happy, and a real bitch to myself. Whatever he screams just validates my thoughts; and maybe I am mad at him for agreeing with that other side of me I hate so much. Truth to be told, I don't need to deny anything.

So yeah, um... reading books. It's called The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck by Mark Manson. A real dead ahead book about, well giving fucks. Like how K-pop used to be a very convenient distraction when I was a moody teenager with capricious hormonal fluctuations; reading was really just a jump ship for the same escape plan—escaping the reality that is.

You know, the more I learn about all that self-reflection and self-help bullshit, the more I find myself bottle-up my feelings. And I would relentlessly convince myself that everything will pass, or nothing really matters, or just ignore everything. It works, and then unsurprisingly, everything piled up from the past few weeks will just burst in one go, making apparent damages. A little bit like women's period, it would be weird if it doesn't come within a foreseen schedule. But if you think about it, I can (in average) function properly for about four weeks, in exchange, malfunction for roughly two days, and then return to normal again. This might not be the healthiest lifestyle but we're all gonna die anyway. Nonetheless, it was a well-written book, with quite a misleading title.

There are so many things I want to express but words are not enough to comprehend them, or rather it's my vocabulary that's not enough. Gosh, why am I even writing any of this? I hate being alive!