In its rawest form, I find myself just writing my thoughts as a means of coping with myself, an entity that I cannot hope to ever fully escape no matter how much I have tried in the past. Perhaps this might be considered a long ramble.
A particular languidness strikes me here. What used to be urgent desperation exhibited in a flurry of angry outburst these days simmer like hot coal in the pits of my stomach. I used to throw myself against the wall with my fists. I will hurt myself more than the wall though sometimes dents were formed in the wall. Other times, I would not feel that this was enough pain. I would strike my head against the wall in a desperate attempt to stop the pain that was within. Perhaps I felt I needed to punish myself with external pain to match the internal pain that I felt within.
Where does all this rage towards myself come from? When I was younger, it was often because of the most innocuous things. Little things that won’t bother other people bothered me. For instance, when I couldn’t solve a math problem from a book of 100 hard math puzzles. What did I do? I took a pen and scribbled furiously on the book that I hated the book.
Another time when something wasn’t going right before a birthday party. In the latter instance, I ran around the room screaming at the top of my lungs while throwing sofa pillows around. My mom and my friend Siwei’s dad watched helplessly while I threw this massive tantrum in the middle of our tiny apartment. There was also a…