The Onionsoul Edition: #887.

Remember: Refuse whatever insults your soul. 

I don’t remember how I used to be. I forget the way I am before many things happened. Before events in life take such a toll in my growth that the only right way to take on it is to evolve into something else. I don’t remember anymore the girl who wanted to be everything. Nope. If you ask me who I am now, believe me I don’t know if I know anymore. I don’t remember anymore the girl who knew how to be ten things at once. Because now I’m one-dimensional, a rotten onion peeled off all its skin. Exposed to die an uninteresting death. 

Today I almost failed an assignment. I know it shouldn’t define my intelligence or skills, but it made me realize what I am becoming. The change I’m experiencing. The difference between then and now. The girl I no longer am. Don’t you get it? I can’t touch my pain, I don’t know where the fuck it is. 

– Pinknerd | #887.

I’d thought of many things I wanted to write to accompany this unexpectedly resonating write-up by Third Sis, written on the 3rd of October, 2011 when she was still in Tasmania, Australia. A few months shy to heading home, just as I am now. Sandwiched between reality and ideals, too conscious of the temporary freedom that’s granted and what it means, preparing to let that go. I had many things on my mind, hence the reason for picking this particular piece for this week’s feature, but- now I realized I’ve nothing to add. I can’t touch my pain either; I’m just as lost as she once was.

I don’t remember how I used to be.

I wrote something yesterday afternoon, addressed to one of my undergrad professors who patiently acted as my listening ear last year when the adjustment phase was hard. Just a few sentences …but so much sliver of truth about the current state of my being. So many times over the past month, I’ve been… scared… hesitant… to face myself.

Because now I’m one-dimensional.

A year ago I wrote to her, my kind-hearted professor, about feeling incompetent being here. That I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but I never thought it’d be this difficult. That in theory I’m aware I’m not supposed to let this get to me, any of this. I told her I’m aware it’s not a competition here. It’s a self-selecting group as it is and my intelligence and potential aren’t exclusively defined and marked by my standing and achievements here. Yet I succumbed to insecurities and monsters under my bed. I wrote to her about feeling lost, not knowing myself. My dreams and wishes have somehow fizzled away.

I can’t touch my pain.

A year later, I wrote to her again and admitted this. I’d gotten the lowest score I’ve ever received, for that course with the final exam. I did well in the assignments and quizzes, so it’s clear that I’d bombed the final horribly. I don’t know what went wrong, I wonder if it’s because I don’t even know what I’m doing here. I go through the motion like a mechanical being, doing what’s expected of me and participating where I’m needed but to be honest, for the past three months I hardly feel anything. I coined this “just another life-slump” in my email to her, chiding myself for my twenty-something woe.

I drown myself in my shows, losing myself emotionally and mentally to them, bingeing on one after another. Lately I feel like I’m stuck in an alternate-reality filled with fictional characters and even though I know all too well I need to take my exit from there, that everything’s an illusion, I don’t know why I should. I don’t see purpose anymore, and my spirit feels like an empty vessel. I exist without impact. Sometimes I feel like I’m withering away, a waste of space, yet I do nothing. I continue to sit in the quiet and solitary space I’ve created for myself.

I’m… running away, shamefully hiding, aren’t I?

“I feel like the emotional stability that I’ve gained comes at the cost of the hunger I usually feel about my dreams and ambitions. These days, I settle so easily. It doesn’t matter what they are. I feel like I’ve misplaced my fighting spirit.” 

At what cost? The girl I no longer am. Don’t you get it? She’d asked. I can’t touch my pain. I don’t know where the fuck mine is either.

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