The day a bit of me died inside

I have a badly cut finger on my right hand from playing badminton during the weekend. That finger makes typing hard because I wince every time I accidentally use it to hit the keyboard. Typing with nine fingers takes time getting used to. I have to realign my hands on the keys and the right hand can’t cope with the punctuation and words on the right side because it can’t instinctively hit the keys as it was used to. Unless I look before I type.


I’m very wary of giving up more information about myself, my feelings or my thoughts sometimes because I’m afraid of losing myself. I have always been that distrustful of people. I think that opening myself up to someone is like having a piece of myself lost to me forever because I’ve placed this little information, whether tiny or important, in your hands and you could use it against me one day. It’s the same as showing you my heart and leaving it vulnerable for you to break it.

I can’t remember how this misgiving came about but it would be a series of events that have come to shape me for who I am today. I am uncomfortable with sharing any details of anything related to my life because I couldn’t bear to think what if that person betray me one day or that person can’t keep my secrets safe.

Yet I’ve always had a hard time letting things go. I may look nonchalant or even sound cynical, but I am naive and even overly sentimental when it comes to relationships of any kind. There is a disclaimer though. I will distance myself from anyone or anything related to that person if I was betrayed, lied to or heartbroken over. But I don’t mean staying bitter or hating that person with a vengeance because it’s not in me to hold grudges for long. It simply means I will not keep even a tiny bit of memory of that relationship with me. The person will cease to be someone familiar or close. Instead, we are back to being strangers.

But I know of people who keep their past, both good and bad, close to their hearts. I suppose they are OK with that because they value the impact those people have made on their lives. This makes me feel silly at times because I would think maybe I should have made more effort in keeping more friends and fewer enemies. Maybe I shouldn’t let these people who used to be a part of my life go away so quickly. Maybe I should go get reacquainted with them. Except I’d feel silly for doing so since I do not particularly care for them. You might think it’s a waste to let go of these people who were once close but if the relationships had ended because it was time to or one of us decided to walk out, then why bother holding onto something no longer complete.

Am I too naive and resolute in this opinion? I have no idea. I could be wrong.

Anyway, I wrote this draft below on 10 August after sorting half my thoughts.

I came out of spin class few days ago incoherent. It was very likely that I was dying of thirst since I stupidly forgot to bring a spare water bottle to the gym. I then saw myself in the mirror when I drank from the water cooler and I was beetroot red in the face. If you checked the Pantone chart, I could be closer to the darker shades of purple. I never knew exercising has the same colouring effect as what alcohol has on me. But really, this isn’t what I am here to talk about.

A little bit of me died 12 nights ago.

I know. I can’t believe this is happening all over again. Not after the fiasco of 2009. I don’t even know how to begin. Is there even an easy way to describe what I felt then and how I feel now? No. But I will try because I owe myself this. To remember and learn from it.

It’s never easy to find yourself being lied to – hearing one lie after another to cover up that first lie. I am not a saint and of course, I lie at times, mostly white. Occasionally edging close to beige. Bite me. Yes, I am here to talk about me, if you haven’t noticed.

That night, a cold chill ran through me when I found out the truth. My limbs went numb from the lack of oxygen because I stopped breathing. I pulled my hair in shock. Did I do anything wrong? Was it me? Was I ever paranoid? Did I not care enough? Did I appear too detached from you? Did I not ask enough questions? Was I too trusting? Did I have a sign on my forehead which says “Treat me like a fool”? Possibly. I mean these things happen to regular people, right? Right.

The whole time, I couldn’t help thinking it was my fault for setting expectations and thinking the best of everything, of us, of the possibilities because doing that had set me up to fail. And reliving those moments over and over about it makes me want to hit my head against the desk. Over and over again.

The thing is you found me at the right time. I was ready to be nice, mature and give as much love as I possibly can because I have learned from my mistakes and I genuinely want to be the best I can for someone who was willing to entrust herself to me.

Now I am just a shell. An empty torn but darn good-looking shell. I talked to someone the night after the incident and he told me something I had known and have always been doing all along. It’s all about mental prepping.

When you have went through something terrible in your life once or twice, nothing will ever come close to hurting you again because that one experience that devastated you years ago will be the light that keeps you focused on what’s important. Your sanity. The one thing you need to stay alive.

The truth is I’ve decided to let things go because I realised in that three days I spent being absolutely miserable, it takes more energy to be unhappy than to be happy.

So my heart was slightly broken. But it wasn’t the end of the world. I am alive, I am grateful for my parents and I have so much to look forward to in my life. I may have stopped myself from following my natural instincts. I may have started putting the walls around me again. But I know now, I am safe. Then again, what do I know? I am still making it up as I go along.

The excerpt above was just half my thoughts. There is another set of thoughts I had after that night. But that will be for the next post because it’s 4.33am and I should sleep now.

2 thoughts on “The day a bit of me died inside

  1. Pingback: Have you stopped smoking for someone? | The Imaginarator

  2. Pingback: Decepticon and dementors | The Imaginarator

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