[JURNAL TENTANG KEKUATAN]: WHEN THE SICK FOUND EACH OTHER

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I went out today. Yes, it’s Tuesday and I feel like I want to remember this quiet historical day yea

Because I went out—it took a whole of world wide web though—to college, to the secretariat room. I met people, friends. I had an appointment with a certain pal. Months ago she told me that she was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Until today she said that the psychiatrist did never diagnose her that way; she put the label on herself.

I do not want to forget this particular Tuesday because I had made a progress, or so I thought. I immediately went back after having meals together. I was elated, for the first time, since almost like weeks—months.

At first, I was hesitant to see her just because. I knew that I could handle it, everything. I knew I could be strong, God would never leave because I was just too precious for Him; never doubt that He loves. I don’t think that He forgets me, nor banishes or gives me any cold gaze.

Maybe it was I who went away. I feel degraded still more, with great vengeance. Swearing and cursing felt good on my tongue as if it were made so. The prayers almost mechanic even though I knew it very well, in my heart, how to do it right: the takbir to salaam. The reciting of ayat felt empty and hollow, it barely scratched my soul just like happiness would deny me these days. The feelings were crushing me more than I could ever remember, it was far more hurtful when you could distinguish what was right and wrong yet you still condemned yourself the ruin. You did not know why, you just did.

The devil inside of me whispered, at this very moment, maybe it was because if I hurt myself then I could God as well, my parents, my friends, so I could inflict them with my pain, so they would never leave me, so they would reach out on me their hands. I do not want them to escape this. That I do not want to be alone even if physically I do. God is inside the veins, in the very heart of me; yet, here I am.

Right now, I feel the need to capture every feeling and moment of today because it is critical to me. I want to seek the way out of this.

She said that perhaps I should try the psychiatrist since she never went to any therapist before. I do not want the drugs, I should never want to depend my life on them. I’m not such a nut case.

But, I know, maybe, I am.

So I got a contact of this particular psychiatrist from my mentor. I contacted her. She said I should contact her again tomorrow to make an appointment. Now I do not really know what to do: I insist that I am not a nutcase. That was also what my friend had felt, back then, when she went to a doctor when she got sick, physically and mentally.

I feel like I continue on to dwell, keep on saying that I shall put an on this, yet after weeks—months barely did anything nor even lifted a finger, then should not I seek another help? Maybe God had intended this way of life—had written this on the parchment of fate thousands years ago. Please, make me strong. I know that I am. If I am not, then this record would be a permanent mark on my path, a perpetual excuse for every single problem I have.

To the people who keep on complaining, mentioning, that they are enduring a depression: dude, you do not know. You do not freaking know. I am breaking into pieces, emotionally, inwardly, mentally. I preserve to keep my physical health on dwelling to rigorous training: run, jog, healthy food. Because I know, I have seen it—her, my friend, she was torn. As I was never weak but fatigue does break the strongest. I was elated a few moments ago, but now when I am alone, the laughter was only knocking on my door.

We had chat, my friend and I. We laughed. I feel better than okay. I did not tell her everything, it would kill me. And I would not take myself getting killed TWICE since I had to see the psychiatrist if we ever made the deal. I thought it was only our way of coping, the self-defense mechanism to survive, was it not? I had forgotten moments and strings of memories so I could stay alive and snatch the life away, but when I had to remember, when the data leaked, I was torn again. To put it simple, I do not want to remember.

My oversleep came back again, it has been two days. I do not know, I am still afraid of getting to bed; on the other hand I still have to make the motivational letter on that youth camp. I cannot comprehend why I made the deal, was it a mistake? Whatever, I thought that maybe it could be some kind of refreshment.

I told my friend that I despise those people that I used to be happy to hang around with.

Why?

Because they did not look up for me. I was kind of sure, that, perhaps, at least, one of them knew, if not exactly, of what happened to me. They read my journal, they knew I had been missing for weeks, from our social circles. Was it because it was holiday and people just needed a freaking moment to take breath so they decided to look away? I told her that since I could not make myself to reach at them, I wrote this, I posted stuff on my social media, so they would know. On the other side, I was adamant to show the world that I am okay, with capital O; I put my lipstick on, I updated my Path and Twitter on my daily/weekly activity, so just I would seem normal. Is not that what any other young girls do, the normal ones?

I guess I do not really know what I want. If I want the world to turn away on me, to see that I am okay, why would I strive for their attention? Pray, God knows better.

Maybe they just do not have the essentials: care, thoughts. Perhaps what we had shared, in words (simple chatter, posting on social media, of course) and laughter did not mean as much to them as to I. That dandy matter of ‘my dear friend, I ask of you, to seek out for me if thou doth not see me in heaven’. That I could not comprehend. Utter bullshit. At this very moment I could care deeply of others just because I do not want anyone to feel of what I feel. Because it is horrible, terrible. There is a profound dysfunction in my life, a disorder. Even feeling okay would mean half of the world.

I was pretty astonished at first. There were seven billions of human beings in this planet called Earth and I found one person, out of the others, who were like me; we had been dancing the similar damn shoes. No, I do not know exactly what she had been through, what kind of shit she had to endure, but I am able to understand. There are more than a thousand students in our faculty, from our batch, and I found her, who had come to me, told me a tale that seemed like a gory story, a bedtime stories gone awry; it was because you do not want to get any piece of this shit.

You would not believe the number of OUR friends who had this condition, the worse case. No, maybe I am just like a piece of cake, a cup of tea. Not the whole cake, nor the teapot and boiling water.

And from a thousand, there were none who came for our rescue. It was a freaking irony, a mere tragedy. What would we do if the sick did not find each other? Should we build up a league of nut case, the alliance of mentally unstable? It is damn hilarious in a sad sad way. But I pity that people, scorn, yes, perhaps, slightly, for a while, I hope.

Do not you dare to put on any words like: “OH! I’m on a goddamn depression, can’t you see it? I’m suffering!”  “I’m going crazy, what should I do?” “I feel like to die, I’m depressed!”. Stop exaggerating if you do not know a piece of this shit.

And you know what? In my case, any reasonable and logic sentences would not work on me. So there would not be any use should you ask me to come to you and tell. If I have been behaving strangely, like a real pain in the arse, all silent and bursting in full wrath or vengeance all of a sudden, please do forgive me. That is one of the reason why I manage to avoid people when I do not feel like it; I feel like a ticking bomb waiting to be detonated and dropped. And secondly, I dislike any questions when I do not desire it so that kind of set me off too. Thirdly, I do not feel like seeing anyone that would cause me any pain, you know, the trigger.

Yes, I am on top of selfishness at the time. Also, keep in mind, I still can be a wonderful buddy to chat with, share things, talk about stuff, goofing around, well when I feel like it. The problem is, you and I just cannot point out when. Usually I can, sometimes.

I am not a nutcase. Sometimes, I am. I do not want to put any labels on, do I?

[JURNAL TENTANG KEKUATAN]: THE BLOOD AND THE ENEMY

credits: Aji Tata I.

I was bleeding, like literally. Well, still am. Since this Thursday.

I had read it could be from severe stress and exhaustion, or else. I could not really tell which one.

The last time I had problems with my digestion system, twice, and received different medicines which did not indicate what was the cause of my condition. And this time I was bleeding, not heavily, only small amount less than five milliliters, perhaps less than three.

It didn’t hurt, though. I was not on my period either, just got it two weeks ago.

Now, I wonder whether the stress had gone too far, again. I hope it did not. Well, I presume that it never really went away, not for a single day. We can say that every human being deals with some certain amount of stress for a period of time in their life, on some occasion. What I’m pretty curious was had the amount of stress that I had the obligation to endure been increased?

Yesterday, I was in the bathroom, trying not to think much of everything since it would do no further good when you got any idea by meditating while taking a dump, or pee. I mean, it would not be quite insightful nor inspiring, Idk. Yet, that time, I was wondering, list of questions were rushing inside my head like the beck gushing through the stony stones.

I’m currently reading The Art of War by Sun Tzu. And I think we could be mutually agree that life without an enemy threatening to stain your future would be less challenging. Moriarty did mention that every fairy tale needs the old-fashioned villain; the bad guy. The necessary evil, to the least.

But then, I thought, who was the real enemy of this life? Life is not a fairy tale, it’s a whole level different from movie, not the play or even books. I have said that, life is either too simple or too complicated and sophisticated to be compared to any stories combined, let alone the movies.

Who was the real enemy? The devil himself? Were it the wrongdoers? Were it evils which lurking behind the blurry greyish of line? Was it something we do and do not on the other hand? Was it something that we had clearly defined within moral department? Was it supposed to be like a specter, going through our peripheral vision, to feel it at the tip of our fingers, whispering eerie words and shush into the ears?

In The Art of War, it was said if we know who we really are as well of the enemies then we can secure victories. And if only we know ourselves but not the enemy, you would be less likely to achieve glory. And if you do not know yourselves nor the enemy facing you, then most likely you would succumb to defeat.

I was bitter, a bit, for a while. For all I know the purpose of the creation of me myself and I is to devote my life on good-deeds-paved road track, to be His faithful servant, to obey His command. Yet, what about the enemy? I should want to conquer all the obstacles and secure the victory. And the victory was laid bare behind the curtain, made of being dying. One only can know the afterlife if he has the chance to meet the grim reaper, if the death bids you a Hello from the right hand then most certainly that is your eternal glory. And, here, I’m not really sure that I want to know, I’m not even ready to send greeting card to the angel of death.

There is the enemy, he would not let me pass. He would not let me be good. He would not let me be what I want to be, what I should be, what I could be, what I would be. He pulled me back and through, put a chain, into restrain, so I would not be anywhere. In this place, called the dark abyss of anonymity.

What if the real enemy was buried deep inside within? Like the demons beneath the road. Wearing the robes of the angel, vivid and bright, all white, the smoothest fabric you could ever touch.

To tell you the truth, neither do I know.

[JURNAL TENTANG KEKUATAN] ERRATIC HEART

credits: S. Pasthika

At Wednesday last week, my heart went all erratic, as if it would burst out of my ribcage, pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. And my hands were trembling. I did notice that it was the left one that went crackling in tremor, the right one was not that…bad. I don’t know why.

I continue on painfully tedious routines. I simply jeopardized my sleep patterns, asleep at afternoon until nearly midnight, then wake up again until the next noon. It went for several days, from two weeks ago until last week, there was not any significant patterns. It happened again this week, not in regular. But basically, it was a simple oversleep. Actually, I don’t want to address these symptoms as another episode of depression, worries, fears, anxieties, whatsoever.

To be honest, I struggle to get out of my mind, that would put the triggers. I purchased nearly half a dozen of novels—the vintage classic ones: The Importance of Being Earnest and Other Plays by Wilde, The Art of War by Sun Tzu, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Man in the Iron Mask by Dumas, The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes by Doyle. Also still have lots on my bookshelf—kidding, on my floor, actually—to be finished off. I maintain to dwell on morning jog twice a week, put a timing, four kilometers in thirty minutes at minimum of times. I downloaded movies in high rating, the ones that received good reviews. I flipped through articles or anything similar.

By the way, I had managed me myself and I to open my SIAK account—that particular place which would display all of your sins committed in the past in the forms of grades and GPA. I got mine 3.65 out of 4. SUPRISING, ISN’T IT? Yea, I nearly could believe that. I checked twice, though, and turned out it was true. Yet, I did not fill up the EDOM questionnaire in lieu to view your actual grades. I don’t have the heart to. I mean, I can’t put myself to look at those blank lines where Seminar, Thesis, and Kerja Praktik are still empty. Waiting to be filled out.

It was as if written in the canvas of life, in the stars, in the constellations, et cetera, et cetera. Was that really some kind of sign? My dark humour side did mention that perhaps it was meant as a joke.

I intended to drop out of college, on my last term, just because. I would not make a good engineer, a proper one. I hate engineering even though I could swallow every single thing those people shove up my face. Hell, you could just read the books, be done with it, you received the grades, the accumulation of your painful struggle as a university student. Does it make anyone different? I could be smarter than anyone on our batch, but no I don’t want to. I don’t like them engineering, what was the point anyway.

Well, Kevin said, the point was there was no point at all.

I could be the most diligent student, I had been dancing those shoes on my high school time. And you know what? Engineering seems like trivial errands for me. Only knowing I don’t know what I want to be. In that case, life can be less exciting, less challenging, lacks the purposes and the point.

People said, just come to me if you need any help. The truth is, how could you help other people? Consolations and sugar-coated words would not bring peace to some people. Some are not the easy ones to deal with, something is wrong within their system. Some are petrified they can barely make a move. Some carry an erratic heart with trembling hands while their thoughts are rushing alow and aloft, while the silence might be killing them. The façade was the superficial one, the ripples were at the bottom of the lake.

Why are you keep saying (on social media, of course) to keep the faith, to pursue what’s worth to, to spread good words, to never give up, to keep the chin high? While, between those interval, you give up on us? Who do you think you are? Are you trying to play dandy?

Well, dude, get a life. I understand people better even at my conditions. Because at some point I want to help them though I cannot give my best.

Sometimes it was terrifying to go to bed, what if I would never make it when the sun came out the next day? I strived to stay awake until slumberness swept me off. I exhaled a heavy relieve sigh when I opened my eyes, realizing it was a brand new day to make up for everything. But, no, not really. I went back to my routines: read the books, watch the movies, find anything worth my attention on the internet, attend the morning jog when it was Wednesday or Sunday.

It was tedious, yet had kept me at bay.

It’s getting to the last January, and I’m still here, not moving anywhere. The duties are waiting for me, sending shivers down my spine. And my heart goes erratic once again, all sparkles and burning.

[JURNAL TENTANG KEKUATAN]: THE PHASE-CHANGING STATE

East Java, Mt. Argopuro

Well, guess what? Since I can’t really put anything on my social media account, so I’m just gonna pour a heavy and dense rain into this.

That’s why I can barely stand people. Ink and papers have the patience. I think it’s critical for me to be heard, listened to. To be understood, at least, for a small portion.

In this world, where I re-frame the wall and floor, even though it is only mere black and white, I assure you I’m the whole universe of it, the axis which it strives to rotate every single day. Maybe in the other part of the world, I could be just a tiny dot amongst the chaos.

No, there is no door nor windows. So I could be safe just inside far far away from the harms.

But for the pen, ink, and papers, I’m their world. The universe.

How convenient for the people, ignorance such a bliss.

To tell you truth, I’m fighting my own freaking battle here. Don’t just throw everything on my face, because if I’m on my normal state I could ask for a minute so we could take a seat, side by side, and have a bloody conversation. No, at this very current situation, I cannot do that.

What I realize, even the slightest ripple, that trigger, can cause an erratic heartbeat to me. I thought it had been blown away, gone baby bloody gone. I’ve been developing this particular self-coping mechanism to put aside all of the trash; I watch videos and movies, writing and reading things. Basically, running away. Sometimes they did help. Until I stumbled into postings, photos, chats, which contained something that, you know, triggered me.

That kinda set me off. Got upset. So I chose to get away, getting immersed into other activities just to occupy my mind.

The pro side, I’m trying to go back to my perseverance. I run for three to four km, keeping up with half an hour of time. Twice a week. It felt above good.

No, baby, I don’t want to get drown even though you’ll let me down. This is not a comfort zone, it’s a depressed zone! And you’re welcome to it.

I’m starting to think to get myself a psychiatrist. Idk, should I?

I’m only 7 credits (SKS) away from being a Bachelor of Engineering thus I shall break the hell loose from ALL OF THESE SHENANIGANS CALLED ENGINEERING.

Could you tell the differences, if you have troubled yourself to venture my blog? From my old writings?

No?

I curse. I try to avoid that anywhere I’m on cyberworld. Including real, ofc. Tell you what? It felt good too. And I’m starting to despise the friends I used to like to hang around with, their behaviours, their words, from chats to simple postings. I can feel that I’m getting away from God, there is great lump in my throat, a burden which is larger-than-life on my shoulders, because something in me, my conscience, can determine between right and wrong.

Yes, this is wrong. I’m deteriorating like a roller coaster falling down from the sky. It’s degrading. Again, what can I do?

Like, on the phase-changing state.

I’m the water that got boiled up up and away, getting evaporated in the air, blown blown away. Gone baby gone by the heat, the rush of everything yea

No no, stop talking about sharing and making postings about taking care of everyone, day reminder, or any other craps. Because baby, if you don’t even lift a finger when your friends are falling down, to pieces, then what are you?

By the way, it’s not solely academic problems. If you peel off an onion, it will reveal in the form of layers, they brought you to tears, make you want to scrap on your eyes even though you can’t, it’ll make it worse.

And do you know, what’s the good side about being me? I get to know life a tad bit better and in another way of thinking, gotten rid off the blissful ignorance, in a kind of harsh way.

If I only ever make it out alive though.

Since I thought that there were not many people who visited my blog, so I decided to write it down here. Getting them out of your chest. It wouldn’t hurt anyone if you smash the keyboards with all your might, right? No, kidding, my laptop is one of my best buddy.

I wish to say something to you. Why are you so busy trying to save yourselves, putting efforts in greater good, spreading enormous amount of reminders, while some people are not able to reach out their hands asking for help? Now, I’ve learnt that when it came to problematic mental health, some people can barely deal with logic and reasons. No, you don’t know. Because you’ve never been in OUR shoes and dance around with it.

Do you even try to?

I’m scared, worried, afraid. Do you know what is more pathetic? Maybe you’re afraid too,  of life, of everything as well as I am, or simply don’t bother to care.

Luckily, there are seven millions people in this planet called Earth. So, I can safely say, that the world has not crumbled. Yet. Too many probabilities, there could be the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I’m gonna write down the most current quote which caught my eyes, from American Psycho:

…there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this—and I have, countless times, in just about every act I’ve committed—and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing…

P.S: Even while writing this, I still bother to be a grammar Nazi lol.

[JURNAL TENTANG KEKUATAN]: THE GIRL; THE WOMAN, A WIFE, A MOTHER

credit: keysuggestion.org

There was this woman, came to us; to me; to the girl.

A wife. A mother of two.

She complained about the family, raising the children, kids’ behaviour. The husband. Practically about her life.

And started to wonder, how could it be, would it be so hard to be good. A good wife, a good mother. A good woman.

So the girl said the exact same thing that had been said to her, long ago. If she did not pass the test, then it would repeat over and over again, perhaps in the very same fashion. This is the test. Is not that supposed to be like that, being alive, being human, saying that we do have the faith? How come we ever expect not to be examined even though we have said that we have the faith? A claim that we are the believer.

She would come to the phase—as a wife, a mother. How could she topple the perks of being one with all the shenanigans she had jumbled upon? Surely, what she had in mind, she did not want to commingle the life she had now with all she could and would have in the near future. One positive thing she firmly believe and yearn to was she wanted to be the strong mother and wife for the family, the reliable women as it should be; who would support the people that she would hold dear.

This woman gave her a lesson to learn. As if on a cue, God had sent that particular woman just in time before she put an end of the rope.

One fine day, she told this to one of friends. He said that it had never crossed his mind, ever.

The girl smiled half-heartedly, perhaps that was the distinct line which made them man and woman. She did have such thoughts for time she could remember. “It would not hurt for you to know, though. “

The said friend gave back a grin, “No, it would not. “

The blissful ignorance. Perhaps she just worried too much, and getting scared all the time. But that did not matter anymore.

What came next was not the woman. It was God who offered His hand to come for an aid, in the mean time, just in the right time.

Never doubt that He loves. Never doubt that He will be near. And when He comes in rescue, everything seems to steer clear.

The girl fell on her knees, it was wonderful.

04/01/2017

[SHORT STORY]: THE SMOKE BECOMES YOU

Cisentor, Mount Argopuro (In frame: Fikri A.)

♫♪ || Waiting the World to Change – John Mayer; Intuisi – Yura; Beauty is You – Abdul and the Coffee Theory; Dealova – Once; Mimpi – Isyana Sarasvati


It begins with the very first of the hundreds pages.

To Supernova, the flaming burst, the dance of falling stars

This is how I fathom my thoughts to depict the constellations

Today is the day when everything is re-framed and the wall is made of inks and papers

And it is simply beautifully hopeful.

So, I create: are we out of the woods yet?

===

Rain approaches her visions like dull melody from distance away, chilling the lonely soul to the marrow, drifting deep into the box of memories without giving a way. The sun is completely hidden beneath rows of dark grayish clouds as she wonders whether the weather has just turned wild since the sunrays cannot be even seen from the place she resides herself, taking in such melancholy scent of the droplets on once dry earth. For a moment she can reminisce of this state being, where she is utterly absorbed in this lucid sensory details—the raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, pair of arms embracing her narrow shoulders keeping her away from any harm.

It turns out that those arms are the inner side of her sleeping bag. She catches a sight of the dome from the yellow summer tent.

She also can make out that the sun does not wish to be found.

The young man is outside. Maybe he has this certain wish not to be found either. In the middle of the vast savanna. Alluring, ravishing, endearing in the most pleasant way. There is a hint of warmth tinging her cheeks each time she recalls any memory regarding him.

They never mind if he frequently strives on daydreaming. Completely immersed in one single thought. It could be a rampant imagination, vivid hope, or perhaps, a mere prayer.

She keeps a journal made of faces and dates. Polaroid collages with small sentences inscribed underneath. It is the synopsis of Lalita Parvati: neighbors, acquaintances, old friends, new strangers conveyed in military precision.

She takes out a Polaroid camera, taking a photograph of him who has been heavily drenched in cold water. His sunkissed skin is adorned in trails of lurid gray—the blood has drained to the feet from his lips. It is almost natural to post the picture near the end of those pages. A snapshot of silhouette amidst the fuzzy fogs, murky dusk from the edge forming a vignette, greyish with a hunting tone of sepia, his back is facing the lens, not allowing anyone to take a peek of his expression. Always keeping a secret.

However, she cannot resist to imagine a certain smile. Of passion and kindness, a gentle heart, the ensnared senses, the bewitched soul. She can picture of sunshine, saccharine-coated voice along with a particular hum of lullaby, followed by unearthly scents which fill the damp air. They are just so thick, stirring on her mind like a terminal illness.

She does not realize until now, that his scent lingers on her clothes.

Black carbon. And the other substances just don’t matter.

Continue reading “[SHORT STORY]: THE SMOKE BECOMES YOU”