Introspection: Embracing Misery + Unmasked
Twenty two years. Twenty two years of acute happiness, of remedial loss, of sensible sensitivity. Twenty two years of nearly criminal irresponsibility, of heartbreakingly tragic consequences, of a reasonable contentment. Twenty two years of the same corrective repetitiveness. Twenty two years. Well, almost twenty two years.
I may not have the same dreadful life as the helpless, not that I am in competition, but I have my fair share of catastrophes. I have lost a mother to suicide when I was four, so sadly, I have no momentous recollections of her, which is a shame, really. There are some minor memories, yes, but nothing significant. But having minor memories is better than not having memories at all. Still, a huge part of me wonders how things would change if she survived Valentines 89. If she did, I wouldn’t have the memory that no child should ever have to remember. The memory of her funeral. What’s worse is that, the imprint in my mind is not even like a photograph, but like some brutal video, a scene wherein my younger brother and I were chasing each other in front of the mausoleum.
Do I regret that which I had no definite control over? No. I would not trade my life, as disarrayed as it is, for any other life. I would not want to let go of the people that I have come to love. I would not give up the memories that I can somehow still remember. I would not give up the experiences that I have become familiar with over my almost twenty two years of existence (it may not be a lot, or noteworthy, but I do cherish everything that my sentimental tackiness can withstand).
It would be interesting, though, to enter some kind of alternate reality wherein my mother survived and have a remote control of sorts that would fast forward (or rewind, or whichever) moments and, well, the life I have in that specific alternate reality. I’d be the grand witness to the only thing in this world that is invariable, change.
I am a survivor. I have survived all the misfortunes, big and/or small, that have come to me like a fatal car crash. I am an emotional person. “Emo”, if you will. Who wouldn’t be with everything I have experienced? Maybe that’s why I am who I am, who you see. Maybe that’s why I am who I see in front of the mirror everytime I fix my hair, or brush my teeth. I perceive a fragile person everytime I see my reflection on the windows of my car everytime I go down from it. I always say that I am stronger. I always try to be stronger. Hence, the facade that is “Evil Johnny.” His intentions made me a confident person. But that’s just a mask I wear to “deny” who I really am. I use that persona to contradict the face beneath the mask that I thought I have no need for. As it turns out, I need the face beneath the mask. As do the people around me. It’s not the mask that they need. It’s not that mask that they love. It’s the person who wears the mask.
Denial. I have denied grief for an artificial happiness everytime something awful happens. Everyone does. I am not alone in this dilemma. I always thought that it was much better to feel artificial happiness (not necessarily alcohol or drugs or other stimulants) than to face everything. I look the other way everytime something bad happens.
I haven’t cried for a long time now. There were so many moments up until the last time I cried that I wanted to do so. That’s why I fear that day wherein something catastrophic happens and I would just implode. And heaven knows if I could survive that. I could only endure so much. And honestly, I am tired. Life has taken its toll on me.
This is me unmasked. No “Evil Johnny”. No “Emo Johnny”. Just plain me.
Still, I’m in the dark. Tragic.