Self Grounding (tw : blood)
It's currently pre-christmas break, and we have two weeks of it until deadline for all things count. For some reason, it's a particularly bad day for me to be awake and not dead asleep to the world. I wish I was still asleep and the day would pass for a better one.
I know it's highly likely because of the unbalanced hormones that comes with PMS, yet that changes nothing to my current predicament.
Actually, I've noticed something different with this time's menstruation cycle.
Usually, my PMS lasts only for a week and then the blood comes, as naturally and smoothly without obstacles as ever (discounting the painful and uncomfortable cramps), but I have been suffering from this month's PMS for 2 weeks and the blood seems to have trouble flowing down. It's spurting out small doses of blood like a dying engine of Stiles' ancient Roscoe instead of the Niagara Falls of blood it usually becomes.
The small amount of blood that comes out isn't red either, it's just clumps of dead brown eggs. Or at least what I think is eggs, for all intents and purposes, it could very well be the form of a dead unfertilised fetus. Which I know is crazy talk since my virginity is fully intact.
The only time I could remember having going through this is when I was sitting for my SPM. Of course, my circumstances at that time was more unforgiving than my current one.
Mom and Dad were away for Hajj for nearly 3 months, I was left with taking care of the house alone with the sad sack of an excuse of my stupid black sheep of a brother who was trying his best to push me over the edge and commit suicide in my room that I shared with Sis back then.
I remember having to switch off all faculties of my emotions in the morning when I get ready to go to school. Methodically attaching each chore to a symbol to switch off my emotional brain : open the windows, open the curtains, make a simple coffee and bread for breakfast, feed the cats, and lock the doors. By the time I leave the gates and walk to school, there is only academical and exam schedules in my head.
I think nothing of the crushing sadness when my offer to help my younger brother was spit aside,
nothing of the overwhelming disappointment and growing frustrations of the overnight dirty dishes and trash left by him despite me cleaning the kitchen before bed every night,
nothing of the anxiety in my gut if I fail to get good grades in the upcoming SPM and the black tar in my throat imagining the disappointed faces of Mom and Dad,
nothing of the pressing loneliness in my bones as I miss my sisters and baby brother, wishing they were by my side and helping me,
nothing of the increasing screams in my head yelling for somebody -anybody- to stop the night terrors, the cramps in my thighs and arms, the fear in my throat, the suffocating confusion of why my lungs are burning and I fail to take breath after breath.
I think nothing of them and walks to my school, as calm as the sea before monsoon hits.
Academic pressure aside, shit hit the fan when the fuckface brought his friends into the fray. Inviting them to stay at the house where I am alone. Having to care for myself for SPM was taxing enough, including the house, my mental state, and him. Shit hit the fan when he would raise his voice at me, yelling at me, hitting me, kicking me.
Sis eventually had to interfere, of course, but God I wanted to die. I wanted to die so much.
A week before the first paper of SPM, I sat on the floor with my back against the door, kitchen knife in my hands over my wrist.
I wanted to do it. I wanted to never feel like this ever, in my life.
Listening to my brother's unwanted, uninvited parasites of friends on the other side of the door, I wanted to never see his fucking face in my life ever again. There is no forgiveness.
To cut the story short, I fell asleep in that condition and woke up feeling empty.A used shell. A husk. I stored the knife under my pillow, and got ready for school, as normal as ever. I sleep with it under my pillow, hiding it someplace else when sis comes home, until the day I eventually ran to grandma's house. Only then the fuckface came to see me, sheepishly apologizing with nothing less of an "oops sorry". At that time I both wanted to hug him and stab his stupid fucking face.
I settled for stony silence.
He left, and I mentally declared him dead to me.
The next morning, my period which hadn't come for 2 months pooled on the bed.
Coming back to the current day, I am alone in my renthouse, empty mug still with used teabag and two slice of lemon at the bottom, cursive "World's Best Aunt" gently looping on the surface, typing up a paragraph of my thesis to finish my degree. Freshly showered and wearing my comfiest clothes in the cold, rainy day.
I'm in a better place than I was, yet this current period problem reminds me of that time.
Granted, I have grown exponentially since then. I know how to compartmentalize my rational sides and emotional sides better, and I know how to swim through the waves by sheer practice throughout the years. Despite the numbers of suicide attempts hitched on my imaginary bedpost, I survived and still lives.
I fell in love.
I pulled through a heartbreak.
I went through medication.
I had a proper psychiatrist (and a proper, formal diagnosis).
I emotionally adopted 3 amazing kids.
I met Amelia, Irene, and Sara.
Widget is born, and I am still here to watch him grow.
I know my demons, intimately and wholefully.
I am no longer afraid of them.
I am myself.
And I am here.
I know it's highly likely because of the unbalanced hormones that comes with PMS, yet that changes nothing to my current predicament.
Actually, I've noticed something different with this time's menstruation cycle.
Usually, my PMS lasts only for a week and then the blood comes, as naturally and smoothly without obstacles as ever (discounting the painful and uncomfortable cramps), but I have been suffering from this month's PMS for 2 weeks and the blood seems to have trouble flowing down. It's spurting out small doses of blood like a dying engine of Stiles' ancient Roscoe instead of the Niagara Falls of blood it usually becomes.
The small amount of blood that comes out isn't red either, it's just clumps of dead brown eggs. Or at least what I think is eggs, for all intents and purposes, it could very well be the form of a dead unfertilised fetus. Which I know is crazy talk since my virginity is fully intact.
The only time I could remember having going through this is when I was sitting for my SPM. Of course, my circumstances at that time was more unforgiving than my current one.
Mom and Dad were away for Hajj for nearly 3 months, I was left with taking care of the house alone with the sad sack of an excuse of my stupid black sheep of a brother who was trying his best to push me over the edge and commit suicide in my room that I shared with Sis back then.
I remember having to switch off all faculties of my emotions in the morning when I get ready to go to school. Methodically attaching each chore to a symbol to switch off my emotional brain : open the windows, open the curtains, make a simple coffee and bread for breakfast, feed the cats, and lock the doors. By the time I leave the gates and walk to school, there is only academical and exam schedules in my head.
I think nothing of the crushing sadness when my offer to help my younger brother was spit aside,
nothing of the overwhelming disappointment and growing frustrations of the overnight dirty dishes and trash left by him despite me cleaning the kitchen before bed every night,
nothing of the anxiety in my gut if I fail to get good grades in the upcoming SPM and the black tar in my throat imagining the disappointed faces of Mom and Dad,
nothing of the pressing loneliness in my bones as I miss my sisters and baby brother, wishing they were by my side and helping me,
nothing of the increasing screams in my head yelling for somebody -anybody- to stop the night terrors, the cramps in my thighs and arms, the fear in my throat, the suffocating confusion of why my lungs are burning and I fail to take breath after breath.
I think nothing of them and walks to my school, as calm as the sea before monsoon hits.
Academic pressure aside, shit hit the fan when the fuckface brought his friends into the fray. Inviting them to stay at the house where I am alone. Having to care for myself for SPM was taxing enough, including the house, my mental state, and him. Shit hit the fan when he would raise his voice at me, yelling at me, hitting me, kicking me.
Sis eventually had to interfere, of course, but God I wanted to die. I wanted to die so much.
A week before the first paper of SPM, I sat on the floor with my back against the door, kitchen knife in my hands over my wrist.
I wanted to do it. I wanted to never feel like this ever, in my life.
Listening to my brother's unwanted, uninvited parasites of friends on the other side of the door, I wanted to never see his fucking face in my life ever again. There is no forgiveness.
To cut the story short, I fell asleep in that condition and woke up feeling empty.
I settled for stony silence.
He left, and I mentally declared him dead to me.
The next morning, my period which hadn't come for 2 months pooled on the bed.
Coming back to the current day, I am alone in my renthouse, empty mug still with used teabag and two slice of lemon at the bottom, cursive "World's Best Aunt" gently looping on the surface, typing up a paragraph of my thesis to finish my degree. Freshly showered and wearing my comfiest clothes in the cold, rainy day.
I'm in a better place than I was, yet this current period problem reminds me of that time.
Granted, I have grown exponentially since then. I know how to compartmentalize my rational sides and emotional sides better, and I know how to swim through the waves by sheer practice throughout the years. Despite the numbers of suicide attempts hitched on my imaginary bedpost, I survived and still lives.
I fell in love.
I pulled through a heartbreak.
I went through medication.
I had a proper psychiatrist (and a proper, formal diagnosis).
I emotionally adopted 3 amazing kids.
I met Amelia, Irene, and Sara.
Widget is born, and I am still here to watch him grow.
I know my demons, intimately and wholefully.
I am no longer afraid of them.
I am myself.
And I am here.
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