The Things You Hate, and the Things You Hate More

I realize this blog deviates from the usual style I present my entries, but my mood wouldn't let me write this any other way. There are times in which I fail, not as a student, not as a friend, but as a person. Like any other person, I have times where I am feeling like no number of tomorrows would solve my problems, no amount of rainbows would put the smile back on my face, and no amount of kind words would heal my broken heart. These are all common instances in real life, something we all must learn to live with.

But unlike the many people who deal with these problems, I try time after time to face these problems alone. Relying on an already broken and burdened spirit to be the only source of solutions to my problems, I am quite sure that it's only by God's intervention on many occasions that I am still here today. People are interesting to me, and it's a blast to hang out with them once in a while, but I can never seem to rely on them when I should. Not because they themselves are unreliable, but because I have never learnt to trust people to carry me through my darkest hours.

The one person I always find myself talking to about my problems is... myself. The majority of my deep and meaningful conversations are with my own thoughts. This probably isn't as productive as a conversation with someone else, and definitely not as healthy. I am well aware of the 'issues' that this kind of behaviour is indicative of, but I need that interaction, even if it is only with myself. So for the remainder of this entry, I'd like to present one such conversation with myself, jazzed up with a few touches from my literary interests.



I approached My Self with a calm exterior, and it rightly reflected my interior feelings, because as anxious and uncertain he would often appear about his own insecurities, I always knew what was real underneath the fake veneer he used. My Self wanted to meet, to discuss something important. I was curious as to what it would be, but I had a pretty good idea of what to expect.

"Hey," I said, catching his attention. Waving briefly, I continued, "So what did you need to talk about?"

My Self was nervous and agitated, and it was a part of him that I really didn't like, but I've never complained too much. He looked around, as if paranoid we were being overheard, before replying, "I wanted to talk about how I have problems talking to other people."

I sighed on the inside. This was exactly what I expected would come up. Showing some concern, I asked patiently, "What sort of problems?"

"Sometimes I like hanging around people, but sometimes I can't stand having to be there when they're around. When we hang out, they can make me feel great, but other times, they can just as easily leave me feeling like crap, wishing I'd never been there in the first place."

"That's pretty common, isn't it?" I reasoned to My Self, shrugging with nonchalance. "I mean, there's bound to be people out there who are nice to be with and some who you just shouldn't be spending time with anyways, right?"

My Self continued to furrow his brow, maintaining a troubled expression on his face. "It's more than that. I mean, it's the same people that can make me feel both ways sometimes. How is that even possible? It must be something about them that just changes from time to time. Why else would I feel like this?"

I shook my head in disbelief. It was as though he was blind. The answer to his problem was within his grasp, but he just couldn't see it, and it was as though he just hoped it was a problem with other people and not himself. I didn't really want to reveal that to him. But I saw no other choice.

"You don't ever really be yourself." I was exasperated, telling My Self this answer. "You don't let people see who you really are, and you will always end up in worse shape doing that."

"I don't like the fact that people know what makes me who I am," My Self replied with a cringe. "I hate that people know who I really am."

His expression seemed resolute, but his voice was quavering noticeably.

"You're right about that," I confirmed cheerlessly. "I know that you absolutely hate it when people find out the real facts about you. But I also know that you actually hate it more when they don't know who you really are."

I could see that My Self was taken aback by these words, and he seemed to become more defensive in his stance, so I dived quickly into my next sentence.

"Sure, it's crap when people find out something about you and you lose your sense of mystery about you," I argued sarcastically. "I'm sure that's a huge letdown for someone who wants to seclude himself from the rest of society. But I know that you're very disappointed when someone doesn't take the time and effort to find out those things about you without you actually telling them."

"Well, they should take the time and effort, I'm not worthless," My Self pouted, a bit indignant at the thought. "It's not impossible for them to talk to me once in a while about something that isn't just shallow and trivial."

"Actually, you'd be surprised," I said plainly. "There are so many things about you that need to change for that to happen."

"Name them."

I was blunt about it, because gentleness simply wasn't an option. "People think you carry the truth about you, think you care about it, but you're a compulsive liar, and you will never tell the truth if the lie will serve you better."

My Self and I, we could lie to anyone, but we couldn't lie to ourselves. He couldn't be truthful if his life depended on it, he lies like it's a skill, but in the end, it's just anything but the truth.

"You keep putting that stupid smile on your face, like you're happy with your life and your relationships, but inside, you're almost always feeling down, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, and you try your best never to let it show."

To the world, My Self is happy, and is often seen with that stupid stupid smile of his, but deep down, he's unhappy all the time, and he tries to make sure no one sees it.

"You're so sincere and earnest about wanting to do good and serve other causes than your own, but always thinking about your own circumstances at some level, seeing where you might benefit from it."

My Self thinks about a lot of things, he is good at generating ideas, but a little too good, and sometimes just ends up being too self-centered in his thinking.

"You pretend like you like hanging out with the crowd, being part of the group, but you feel just as detached, just as alone with other people around as you do when you're by yourself."

I see My Self with people, and he reacts like he should on the outside, but he never really changes on the inside. After the people have disappeared, he's the same as he always was, without that connection to the other people.

My Self was troubled by my statements, not because they were false, but because they were true. He seemed silent, so I continued on.

"Why do you think you are who you are?" I quietly asked. "Why did you end up being so distant and unwilling to open up to other people about these problems?"

His answer was tentative, but he seemed committed to it. "I don't know why, but I've always had the feeling that people were more interested in what I do than who I am. The things I've accomplished are far more interesting than I actually am."

"That doesn't make you uninteresting," I comforted.

"I know." My Self nodded in acknowledgment. "But I don't know how I could ever get them to see that."

"They probably do. And they probably know a little bit more about you now than they did before."

We said our goodbyes, and walked our separate ways, at least for now. We would meet again to discuss our thoughts soon enough, because we were the same person, all things aside.



So this narration is a literary rewrite of an actual conversation I had with myself. I don't remember ever doing this before, but since this blog is all about me, it's probably an appropriate place to put it. I don't doubt that some people will find it a little weird. If so, excuse my quirky personality/personae.

My Self is who I portray myself as, when I am out and about in the world. This is who you see, but not necessarily who I am. The narrator 'I' is the person who I really am, and who I would be if I stripped away all the false layers.

In the end, they are both a part of me, but they serve different purposes, and I would like to get rid of one of them eventually. But I don't know when that will be yet.

Well, that wraps up another entry. It's helped me lift my spirits a little, just to write my thoughts down, because my deep and meaningful conversations with other people are very few in number.


Thanks guys,
See you all next time