• 8:11 PM, Saturday, January 28, 2012

To Anonymous who left a message on my obsolete Formspring:

Thank you, whoever you are.
Truly, I need nothing more than to be understood.

But perhaps that's out of my control because unfortunately, schizoids are rarely ever understood by majority of the "normal" population because our mindsets are more than two galaxies and one universe apart. Trying to explain ourselves is as effective as talking to a brick wall.

I do not mean to put down any goodwill you may possess; I've received each and every 34 words and it makes me smile, but my smile is so hollow, I begin to wonder why I'm smiling at all. You're an anonymous entity and my happiness should not matter to you. So I drop the false act because the truth is, I've never felt "happiness" ever since I was self-diagnosed with my other disorders a few years back. (Which in hindsight, is when I turned into a schizoid as well.)

It's an empty void. Others may expect it's all too easy to "open up". It is not. Or, I'd rather not. Saving my breath, time and saliva is a smarter option.

But again, I thank you, Anonymous.
For taking the time to type out 34 words to someone who doesn't matter.

On with today's post.

So in what I believe was rash impulse, I let loose the darkest skeleton in my closet. Sure, I can delete those posts anytime I want. I can do it to save myself the headache of pondering over whether others think I'm trying to hog some attention to myself. I can, but I don't. I'll not deny myself of myself any longer. What's the point in life if I can't let myself be who I am?

At this point in time, I'm emotionally blunted to the extent I can't feel anything distinct other than dull pulses of what-if and could-be feelings. My mouth can spew anything (I'm happy, I'm sad, I'm angry, I'm disappointed, I'm nervous), but the fact remains; I can't feel a fraction of what I'm saying.

My mom told me the other day, "You're great, you know that? You always think you spend too much when you spend too little!" I cracked a smile, waved my hand in a dismissive notion and remarked, "Even so, I spend too much. I shouldn't have bought that CD; $40 is plain extortion."

I do feel guilty. In my mind, that is, where my brain tells me I'm supposed to feel guilty for using my mom's hard-earned money because all I do is laze at home and put myself to waste.

My body? Not so much. There're no telltale aches whatsoever.
My emotions are pretty much gone. Nothing but faint tugs.

After some researching (as in, scouring the internet all over), it turns out I've been a secret schizoid. I adhere to others for appearance's sake. Ironic, because it seems I gave that up when I found out SPD is what had me backing away from delving into interpersonal relationships. (But hey, who's to say this is permanent. I may very well turn back into a secret schizoid the next day because I'm whimsical like that.)

Remember the tale of "waking up from the wrong side of bed for several days" the previous week? That was an utter lie because I didn't know (or heard of) SPD at that time, and therefore had absolutely no idea what was happening to me.

The story: I broke my friend's thumbdrive, which incidentally held the only version of our semester-long project module. She lost all the work she'd ever done.

I was wrought with something indescribable. Inconveniencing others, or being inconvenienced, was something I avoided like the plague. You stay out of my life and I'll stay out of yours. That was my philosophy, and it was broken into three.

I apologized in earnest because I didn't know what to do. I didn't feel the least bit guilty, just a tad annoyed because who saves the only version of an important project in a thumbdrive without the original file existing on their laptops? I continued to apologize because that's where guilt would lead "normal" people.

And "normal" people, as I see it, don't care much either. After they're done with their apologies, they think damage control has been executed and they get their happy arses back to whatever they were doing. I continued to apologise in earnest, I couldn't concentrate on my work. The only thought in my mind: Run away.

So I hid in the cubicle for a good 15 minutes until the lesson ended. And then I hid in my room for several days because the aspect of dealing with something so foreign was beyond my capacity.

It's not my friend I cared about per se (schizoids have emotions; just that we can't really feel them). It's more of her hard work that's flown into outer space. I made a connection by acting as the bridge between her and her hard work, and it unnerved me to the point I was crying the very same night I returned home, despite being unable to experience the heartache that came with tears.

Those few days made me think, there and then, that I didn't want to have anything to do with humans. Keep the exposure to a bare minimum and I'll lead my life in serenity. I wasn't aware there's a disorder for my personality, so I labelled myself as a coward who ran away. And perhaps that's exactly how others perceive me to be.

But really, what does it matter now that I've gotten the answer I've always sought? Schizoids will never truly be understood; that explains my attraction to Naru. He's perfect. An ideal portrayal of moral values and selfless acts, one that does not require interaction to forge a bond with. One that goes according to whatever plan or schedule or play in my little mind, where I'll always be in control.

And, quite frankly, sometimes I can't bring myself to care.
You can recount your life story for all you want: it's banal to me.

I've always wondered why I didn't care, why I wasn't interested in trite conversations, why I can't feel anything anymore. Now I can step back and plop myself down with this satisfactory view of the confusing life I've led.

If you want the truth: almost everyone around me is a moron. I say this without spite, without venom, without mockery. I've never expressed this view simply because it was abnormal for anyone to feel this way, and I'm bound to be judged for such a statement even with my lack of emotions about the issue.

Okay, they're morons. But I don't look down on them, I just glance at them, envisioning them to be extraterrestrial beings because I can't quite understand them. It goes both ways because, as I've stressed, they don't understand me either. It's not about giving a chance to understand and be understood. We live in different dimensions, that's all it boils down to.

While this is where any helpful beings (kudos to you, Anonymous!) start shaking and drooping their heads in genuine sympathy, perhaps exhausted from offering support when the individual in question seems to be thriving on denial, I can refute this action right back at you.

You can't exactly offer help or support when I'm not suffering in the first place. I appreciate my provoking thoughts because they pump my blood through my veins and provide the grounds for the insanity in me, which calls forth my creativity and productivity in return.

(But, well, this is only for SPD. Not so much for my other disorders, which I can safely verify I'm suffering from.)

I've this skewed, dried perception through my lenses that you can grasp at straws for. It's fun, it's gory, it's sugar candy and bitter snaps. I'm not letting anyone unworthy in. SPD is a gem in itself, though it can be insufferable at times.

It's uncanny, I feel so liberated. A thousand cranes are flying.

Dear Mom,
I'm sorry I'm your daughter and I'm sorry for the sadness shining in your big, big eyes if or when you're ever made aware that I'm not proud of being your daughter because I can only bring you hurt, pain and misery in this lifespan on this peculiar globe populated with creatures I do not and will never understand. I'm sorry for you that I have 3 severe and 2 mild disorders. I'm sorry others will hold a bad impression of you for raising a psychotic eldest son and semi-psychotic youngest daughter. I'm sorry. You're probably the only human being to whom my apologies will hold any semblance of purpose or meaning. I'm bullshitting the rest with apologies that matter as much as cow dung. Please know that I really love you, although I can't feel it in any cell of my body. Please know that I'm worried, although my expression is dull and my heart beats at a normal rate, unaffected, whenever you speak of your illnesses. You'll live long, so stop spouting nonsense.

Naru's beautiful today. I'll pucker my lips and give him a kiss if I could.