Reflecting (or, Horrible Human Being)

I don’t know what to title this post, so I’ll just title it simply–Reflecting, the very activity that I have been doing over the past 2 hours.

I went home, had a shower, ate dinner and started up my laptop to watch a Korean drama.

Or that’s what I wish I had done.

I am going to come clean: I am being tortured, tormented. My entire being is being eaten up, gnawed upon, by the monster of Guilt that fills my mind in a red haze and soaks me in the tears of those who I May Have Harmed but Do Not Know.


It’s my personality, I tell myself, stone in my chest and knot of dread in my stomach. You’re like this: Unable to commit, dismissive, eager to place, a suck-up, a balloon full of hot air…

In other words, you’re not the person you want to be. That’s a problem, right? in order to be ‘happy’, I have to at least be content with who I am. I question myself now, how can I be content with who I am when others are far less than satisfied with who I am?

Then, I ask myself another question: Why can’t I let myself go and be who I want to be? is it that hard…that hard for people to be considerate, and work around my personality? Why should I change, so desperately, when I’ve been changing my entire life–it hurts especially now because this is the one period in my life where I have felt comfortable–apparently, I have gotten too comfortable, for the time has come again for me to reinvent myself, unless I want to keep hurting others, and consequently, hurt myself.

There are tears in my eyes. Oh, there are tears. Crying won’t solve anything. Writing can, it allows me to fill up the empty spaces within me. But right now, it isn’t exactly helping. Sure, pounding out this blog-post, fingers tired and tear-stained and jerking on the keyboard, has exhausted some of the emotion out of me, but overall, I feel like a horrible human being.


Maybe I should stop crying. Maybe I should stop my personality from spilling out of my tightly-sewn seams. Maybe I should stop being me. It doesn’t seem to help.


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