'Love and fear. Everything the father of a family says must inspire one or the other' - Joseph Joubert

There's a very good reason why I'm not in a rush to go home.

Why is it that everytime I think of my own dad, it's often the latter that takes over me? I think over everything I say before I say it outloud because I'm afraid he'll take it the wrong way and the simple chat would turn into something disastrous. I constantly second guess myself. Would this be good enough? Would he approve? If I say this or do that, would I be good enough? I don't say what I feel because he doesn't understand, never did, and I'm tired of trying. Tired of him lecturing when all I need is a laugh or a bit of consoling. So now I don't talk. Not to him, not to someone who reminds me of him, and not to those I don't know well. Hell, even my best friends don't know everything.

The only reason I'd cry here is because of home, but not because of homesickness. I wonder if part of me being happy here is because I'm far from home. News from home don't always soothe me; they worry me more often than not. I feel so much older than eighteen sometimes, and I hate it. I know I'm strong, but not always, and I don't always want to be.

I spoke to Linda - my host mum - about how I'm constantly worrying about how he'd react to whatever I tell him, and she said, "I'd think you're self-possessed enough to not let your dad get to you."

I wish.

Don't get me wrong. I love my dad like every child would. He works hard for us, he makes sure we're well taken care of, and he loves us. But like most children, we don't have the best relationship. I just want to feel like I'm good enough. I don't want to feel like a damn disappointment every other day. That's not too much to ask, is it?

"I'm just saying parents screw up. It's what they're good at. They do." - Tibby, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

Labels: angst, family, thoughts

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There’s a monster living inside me. It stays in the darkest corner of my heart, dormant until it’s time to awake. Like a Dementor, it feeds on negative emotions: anger, jealousy, sadness. Everyone has one, I know, but lately mine has been out of control.

It’s eating me alive. It’s putting dark thoughts in my head, making me feel worthless, unloved, pushing and pulling until I fall apart. I try not to listen to it, I try to think of better things, but sometimes there’s nothing I could do but succumb to it. I hide it well; no one see it unless I let myself break in front of them. My friends think I’m the positive one, the one who’s always so pulled together and calm. When my grades fall apart, my parents think I just don’t work hard enough. Even when I told them about it, they didn’t believe me. They want me to put it in a box and lock it away while I’m studying. They don’t seem to want to understand, and I’m so tired of trying to explain it.

I’m tired of feeling like a failure.

I could see my Dementor’s face sometimes. Bloodshot eyes, glaring icily; grim lips, set in a frown forever; silent sobs swallowed in her throats and venomous thoughts running in her mind. It’s me on my worst state. It’s a part of me only few ever saw, and even fewer understand. Lately it’s been floating up to the surface more and more, making me think of the most horrible thoughts: You’re not good enough. You’ll never make it. No one loves you. You can disappear forever and no one will notice. No one cares.

Writing has been my sanctuary. It heals a part of the pain, but not entirely.

Labels: angst, family, friends, thoughts

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