She counted the cracks on the ceiling 10 times already, traced 9 imaginary figures and had named 8 of them. She laid her outstretched hand on her side, then let out a deep sigh. She closed her eyes shut and counted from one to ten, backwards. She let out small breaths, as if that would quell the burning in her throat. She clenched her fist, ignoring the pain when her nails dug into her skin. She bit her lip in frustration; the tears refused to stay inside.
She opened her eyes when she felt the tears running down her face. She stared at the ceiling, forcing herself to recount the cracks and to see if she missed some. She cannot see the cracks clearly as her tears were blurring her vision, she only counted up to 7 before a violent sob shook her body.
She placed her forearm across her eyes, as if it can act as a dam for her tears. Her face felt hot, and her cheeks were damp. She tried to control her breathing, but it still came out in short and ragged gasps.
She let out a long shuddering breath, removed her forearm from its place, opened her eyes then let the sobs rack her body.
There is this adage, ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ if we are talking of broken bones it may be true, but if we are talking about heart problems, it may be a wholly different case. Example, when you suffer from a myocardial infarction- your heart may pump faster as a compensatory mechanism, but, it does not mean that it is stronger, contrary to it; your heart would be more vulnerable, easier to kill. Unfortunately, your problem does not arise from an organic cause, nor would your scars be visible in x-ray films or MRI’s. But you feel it, the pain is there, gnawing, constantly reminding you of what ifs and should have beens.
The questions plague you day and night. You play every memory in your head; fast forward, slow down, rewind. You search for answers on these mental film strips, confusing real memories from confabulations. All the answers that you find makes your mind simultaneously think that you’re a victim and an offender in this whole fiasco. In all your ruminations, you always land on the same answer: you are flawed, lacking, undeserving. Your mind refuses to accept it.
You stalk them in social networking sites, looking for their new conquest. You take note of their flaws, compare them to yourself then gloat as to why they settled for second best. The treacherous thoughts of your inadequacy starts creeping in, part of you wants to wallow in self pity (they are obviously below you, but what did you do wrong?) while another part of you wants to look at them with disdain and gloating. When one side won, whichever, you start looking again for chinks in their armors, whether to gloat more or to sink further in the quagmire of your perceived inadequacies. It’s a vicious cycle.
You try to drown your inner drama queen with gallons of ice cream or liters of any alcoholic beverage you can find. You alternately listen to Taylor swift and Adele; belting out someone like you one second then screaming out never ever ever getting back together the next (like ever). You often feel giddy at thoughts of them stepping on a Lego, or stubbing their little toe on a corner. When you see them post about having a bad day, you rejoice, feeling as if the cosmos are sympathizing with you, conspiring to align in a way to give them nothing but the worst of luck. Though sometimes you’re still torn about feeling bad for them and feeling they deserve it for treating you like crap.
You feel bad, that’s normal. Your heart and mind is recuperating from an emotional whiplash. You alternately blame yourself and that person for the failure of your relationship. More often than not, you push all the blame on you. Even if your rational self refuses to accept that you are solely responsible for the failure on your brief stint at love, the more irrational part of you adamantly reinforces that guilty feeling.
Guilt is treacherous; it makes you do things that you wouldn’t probably do when you are emotionally stable. One common example is drunk calling them at 3 in the morning, begging them to tell you what have you done wrong and that you would even grovel just to get back on their good graces. Sometimes, this guilt may even turn into anger. You may be just projecting your own feelings of inadequacy and guilt on them. You take on a “you need me I don’t need you attitude,” comforting yourselves with thoughts that they are miserable without you. Of course you are aware of that fallacious thought; they have replaced you with a substandard creature–or at least that’s what you think–at least it’s better than waking up and finding the other side of the bed cold and empty.
You begin asking yourself why you even liked them in the first place. You try to think of their good qualities, those that you didn’t force on them or those you didn’t blow up into epic proportions when you placed them up on the pedestal. Surprisingly, you could only list a few, you blink a few times, salvaged your memories again, rattled the rusty cages in the corners of your brain, but the results are still the same. In your mind, the light surrounding them dimmed a bit. Their imperfections are now more visible to you as their false shine is not anymore blinding you. You see their mistakes in your relationship.
You smile, breathe a little. You feel a little weight off your shoulder; at least you’re not the only one to blame for this fiasco. You take out your mental scoreboard, and then put on little ticks on whose side is at fault in one event. You feel elated whenever he outnumbers your mistakes, but then, you think to yourself— are you not being biased? Are you being objective about everything? With these in mind, you start over again, further dissecting memories, looking for more clues to prove that you’re innocent.
With your further descent down the memory lane, your mistakes are in plain sight, stark against the white noise of your warring mind, strangely though you don’t mind. You don’t feel the need to be perfect anymore. They have their imperfections, so why couldn’t you? Although you don’t hold their flaws against them, they can’t help it, they’re only human, both of you are. Maybe your imperfections are not complementary to each other. Like in math, maybe you’re a positive and they’re a negative or vice versa. Maybe you’ just cancel each other out and not really amounting to anything.
But failing this relationship does not mean that it’s a mistake. Yes you may have broken pieces of yourself in the process, but it does not mean you will be too weak to move on. Let yourself take time in mending yourself. Take long walks in the park, write a diary or find yourself a hot new person to obsess yourself with. But don’t jump into another relationship just for the sake of moving on.
Let this experience be your how-not-to guide in the future. Know what you did wrong and try to avoid it, though bear in mind that there is no such thing as a perfect relationship. You will still make mistakes, shed a few tears, or break another piece of yourself. Just make sure you clean up after yourself.
I wrote this a long time ago, a sort of “cheer up” piece for my cousin who had been in a bad break up during that time. Personally, I’ve never been broken up with before (well, I’ve never been in a relationship before, but it sounded better that way, yeah?) so this is just what I gleaned from rom-coms and friends who had the unfortunate opportunity of going through such thing.
Everything was bleak: the weather, the buildings, the people. The sun was obstructed by overcast cloud.The buildings lacked the shine that usually accompanies steel and glass, they only reflected their drab towering brethrens. The people wore masks on their faces, not a literal one, but one that they don’t even know that they’re wearing.
And she was bored, bored, bored.
There is only that deafening hum from the airconditioning unit and the occasional drumming of fingers, shifting of clothes, and scraping of chairs from the conference room. She don’t have anyone to talk to. Everybody is wrapped up in their own thoughts.
She was bored. She don’t even know why she’s applying for a job that is totally unrelated to her degree. Oh wait, she does. She’s bored.
Everything started to get boring when school ended. There were no patterns, habits, homeworks and lessons to get lost into. It’s like somebody punctured her carefully structured inflatable fort.
She have all this free time in her hand. Which should be good, since she never had a free time in all her years in the university. But in reality it’s not, it only gave her time to stew in her own thoughts.
She looked outside her window while listening to old british pop songs. It was nice outside, she can see the ocean from the highway. It was a bit cloudy too, the sun is obscured by a thin veil of gray clouds, its rays looked so cold. The ocean was the same color as the sky; there was only a misty line separating the horizon; she can’t really tell where the water ended and the sky began, if not for the part where the sun rays were reflected. It looked like somebody flashed an old flashlight on a dusty grayish blue rippled glass.
It was breathtaking, that even if she used the best adjectives and flowery words in her arsenal, it would still look paltry compared to the original thing.
She felt empty, not the dead kind of empty, where you feel nothing at all as if all your neurons abandoned firing sensory impulses to your brain. It was, at least according to her, the kind of emptiness that nags you with its presence, constanly reminding you that you have a void for a heart and a hole where it’s supposed to be.
She was drowning. At first she thought going with the flow was a good idea; just let the waves calmly take her wherever it is. Then the waves became more turbulent, colder. She felt it on her skin, making it prickle before freezing all her nerve endings. She feel it crush her lungs, making the air go out of her in gasp and water go in her in torrents. She fought to get her head above the water. She’s almost failing.
She felt broken. It was like listening to a broken vinyl record, but instead of the actual listening, you get to watch her repeat her days in an exact manner. It was almost robotic, or like a glitch that keeps on looping. She said it was better this way; habits almost kills all emotions, and that works for her. She don’t have time for pesky things such as emotions. So she plasters on this habitual smile on her face then go on her day without actually feeling it; just going through the motions.
She felt sad. It is as if an elephant decided ot would be swell to sit on her chest. Everything now was a trigger; a look, a photo, a word, they are all keys to the trunk of feelings she so desperately hid.
She never was one for idle thoughts. It was as if she’s compelled to brood about something important all the time, as if the fate of the world depends on it. She would always have this wrinkle on her forehead even if she’s not wrinkling her whole face in consternation. Her eyebrows would always be drawn together while she worry her lower lip to oblivion. She was a somber neurotic child.
Most of the time she is just drowning in her own queries and insecurities that she would just stare off into space. She would always have a sort of blankness in her eyes; a dull sort of darkness that you could drown into. Then suddenly, as if from a trance she would, in a flurry, gab about this and that while methodically attacking whatever task she has at hand. She would repeatedly vacillate between her bouts of inactivity and bursts of energy at random moments that one can never keep up with her.
It has, unfortunately, put a dent in her already abysmal social life. Not that she was a pariah or something akin to that. Some people just view her as eccentric, but for some, they already put her inside the loony bin.
When she is happy though, she is really happy, almost bordering on ecstatic. Nothing could go wrong, nobody is bad, everything is practically bathed in sunshine and rainbows. It was a sort of happiness that consumes you. The almost forced kind of happiness that you have when you’re desperately running away from something unpleasant.
It would wear her out, then the insecurities and fears that she desperately keeps at bay would start creeping in the crevices of her walls. Everything would be tinged in gray, everybody is worthy of paranoia and she would be the posterchild for ridicule.
She tries to keep her demons from consuming her, she tried fighting them, running away from them, and ignoring them, but alas, nothing can dissuade them from nipping at her heels. Then, as always, she succumbs to them. Everything would be dark, everyone is out to get her, and she would be helplessly curled up in her own fears.
So, I tried doing this sort of character description. This has been in my drafts for as long as I can remember and I just found the will to finish it. I don’t have bipolar disorder, but I did study about it and I knew people who had it, so if somebody with the said disorder finds this description wholly erroneous, I’m sorry and please tell me what I got wrong.