Tag Archives: personal revelation

Jesus wept

two words

Jesus wept

I wept
I am weeping
the beauty of music is its ability to

shock our soul into
recognition of mortality

connection, flimsy contact

shaking and trembling
tears dripping
heart breaking

stiff and agonising realisation
mortal prison of flesh
the soul she cries

for she can not escape and mingle with her fragments
swirling with the universe

trapped shard in meaningless structures
false identities and constructs.

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Complex minds

Our brain is deep and complex with the Id, Ego and Superego
Childhood traumas
Awkward pubescent periods
mind soul religious debates

It isn’t always that complex though.

Jungian theories aren’t mean to be analysed every single day.
Psychoanalysing your behaviour every 5 mins is preposterous.
Digging into your past with a cotton bud of “awareness” is bull.

Sometimes,
being angry because your mom said something
factual
made you upset
cause you expect her to say something else/
didn’t expect her to say that at this moment/
simply because it was not too nice.

Don’t bother going back 20 years for the moment
Daddy wasn’t around
and Mommy was holding your sister
While you sat alone playing with Barbie.

Right now you are upset
cause you are upset.
Breathe.
Respond when you’re clear-headed.
Breathe.
Reacting is not what you want to say/do.
Breathe.
Your emotions are real right now.
Breathe.

But you can choose to take
A Step Back
Breathe
And Respond in the manner you wish to.

Being Yourself means being who you want to be,
the best you
the you not swayed by reactionary emotions.
It’s real and a part of you,
but it ain’t necessarily You.

I hope you understand.

It isn’t too complex.

 

Just breathe.

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No bpd?

The psychologist said I had BPD so I took it to be factual. Read all the stuff and it seemed like I had it and to be honest, I’ve finally come to turns with it.

Cried in the shower today and had flashbacks to past emotional and physical abuse and hurts as a child by my parents. By my exes.

Went to Google and ended up reading about abandonment trauma. Found an article comparing it and bpd, and honestly it seems like I’m suffering more from abandonment trauma.

I don’t remember a lot of my childhood, for one. And one of my clearest memories is crying alone in the playroom, pulling the string of a musical duck telling myself my mom isn’t coming back everytime she went to throw the trash out.

All other memories are inferred from pictures or of me playing alone.

It makes more sense. I’m hoping I can talk to my counsellor and psychiatrist bout this. Cause then I wouldn’t need my medicine anymore?

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3rd Nightmare in a row

I wouldn’t say it was a nightmare as Hollywood imagines it. No scary monsters, no sudden ghost or monster popping up and scaring me awake – though I had one a couple months back, had to get a hug in the middle of the night from fear – but these three nights have been filled with nightmares that are intensely stressful scenarios.

I dreamt of Chris last night. I was out with friends at… a park of sorts. He was across the lake, or on the lake canoeing. He was bigger, more muscular to an extent but clearly denser and wider. His hair was a crazy afro mess. It was uncomfortable seeing him walking around constantly flexing his biceps. He came over, sat down, and tried to be conversational with everyone, but me. Stares of pity filled the table and I sat in quiet discomfort, minimal eye contact and stiff body posture. Finally got up and left, half running away from him. From them.

He follows, so what else can I do but hop onto the train and hope to lose him? He follows.

Next thing I know, I’m in a courtyard, and using a balloon float up towards a flaky pastry cloud, coasted with sugary gloss like Ritz’s Strudels. I’m not just literally running away from my problems, I’m flying away from it. He becomes Jon in how I was going to find him at his place, but it’s complicated to journey there.

Then I’m at my booth, my magazine’s booth. But who are these girls selling our magazine’s stuff? We have merchandise… we have MERCHANDISE? These girls are punks, they don’t care for the magazine, they don’t care for the store. Why are they here, what’s happening. I take charge and give notes on what needs to be rearranged and sold and explained or given descriptions. Nothing, they listen to nothing and no one.

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Will this one last?

Most people tell me that my biggest problem when it comes to relationships (familial, friendships and ‘romantically’) is my expectations. That I expect too much, or even expect at all – a guy once told me, “Joey, you can’t expect!” Granted, ours was a confusing piece of shit, but I digress – and I’ve always assumed that to be the biggest and ONLY issue.

Thing is, when you use a superlative, there must be something to compare it with. As with my pet peeve of people saying they have 50 billion Best Friends, expecting too much of others is the biggest issue, but not the only issue.

I’ve just had a revelation from reading my ex closest friend in JC tweets/tumblr posts/fb posts (spoiler alert, they’re all usually linked):

I hate being replaced.

I like to feel like I’m necessary in the other party’s life, that I’m a significant part of their life, that I’m worth something to them and irreplaceable. I, Joey Aziel, subconsciously but surely, subscribe to the princess syndrome. I want to be unique and special, and Irreplaceable.

Cue Beyoncé.

In all seriousness though, I sincerely hate the idea of being replaced. To feel like someone else could easily take my place in the lives of everyone who matters to me. Sure, I dislike the You’re A Special, Unique Snowflake theory that has been drilled into my generation’s minds, but I am a victim, a rabid believer in this. I sincerely believe, deep down, that I am unique and special and one of a kind. Not just genetically, because I’m not a twin, but because of all my little quirks, beliefs, inspirations and role-models, experiences etc.

That’s why when the niece and domestic helper came around, my relationship with the parents got strained. My mom talks more to the domestic helper than to me, for goodness sake. That’s also why when someone says, “Hey, you remind me of another one of my friends!” I immediately get this insane, fervent desire to find said “friend” and rip her throat out, screaming a tribal warring song at the top of my voice.

However, at the very same time, I get comforted when someone says that they know how I feel, that they too have gone through the same thing and that it gets better, and why I broke down into a bumbling mess of snot and hot, sticky tears while watching two whole seasons of Awkward, because that show was the story of my life (excluding having two men falling in love with me. and the false suicide attempt. Plus the head cheerleader hating me part. But other than that, Story Of My Life).

Sure, I’m kinda self-centered right now, but don’t we all generally feel the same? The constant need to seek out comforting, reassuring words from someone else that it’s all good, that I’m not the first nor the only one going through whatever shit it is I’m trying to shovel out of this dump I’m currently in?

(It’s been a while, but let me try this again.)

Isn’t that why I need God?

Because although it stems form the self-obsessed, self-validating culture I live in, the knowledge that I am a special little snowflake came about because I’ve been told since Sunday School classes that God made me, that He knew me and still chose to create me, even before I was born. I AM special, because God wanted me to experience life.

Greater than that, He wanted me to have a relationship with Him, to go through all the hurdles and hoops, but ultimately reach peaks of exhilaration in our walk together, for the rest of my life.

I may feel neglected at times, but if I just remember to go to the Right person, or in this case, other-worldly being, I will remember that I’m His princess, and that’s okay. Cause in His books, I’m his precious, loved daughter whom He cared so much for, and decided to crate and put on Earth and breathe life into and allow His son to die on the cross for. This doesn’t give me the right to be a bratty little bitch, but that puts me in a position of immeasurable love.

I’m not irreplaceable in His books, and that’s what really matters.

Wow, scary men screaming below. They sound kinda drunk and they’re screaming a lot of profanities. I hope the baby doesn’t wake.

 

Shout out to Edwin, for reminding me when I was complaining about studying that I should go to God and pray before studying for His wisdom.

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