AkImA No NiKkI

  I thought the first thing I would've done after getting my own place to live would be getting a cat and slowly add up the numbers, but surprisingly, I was too caught up in the waves of changes in my growing life that caring for another living being became a thought too heavy for me to take up. The trains of my thoughts slowly became bigger until they turn into shapes and forms of their own that breathes into my living space, and commands my body.  Caring for another seems a bigger responsibility that I thought I couldn't hold. And as time goes on, I slowly forget how much joy cats can bring into my life, despite the troubles they also bring with them. After all, I grew up with cats around in my childhood. Mia (my little sister) has been begging me to keep a cat, now that she is also living with me (for now but we have been talking future plans where she returns to mom and dad as she studies for SPM) and I've been considering the thought for a while. I've asked the opi

It was my birthday 2 days ago, my 28th. Another year and then I will cross that 30-middle age crisis. Hey, 17 year old me, did you think we'd ever make it this far? Pass my message to the 19 year old us. We've reached 28 now. The world is dying still, burning everything and everyone to the ground, slowly but surely. That one is still unchanging. The world burns every day, only the way it burns differently.  Are we still suicidal, depressed, and mentally ill? Yes. But at least we are still able to love and be loved in return. Another form of self-diagnosis has come up the past recent months, which is, hey hey hey I'm autistic. Voila. Not level 2 or level 3, obviously, since I'm quite capable of masking and my needs are low-support, but yes, it explains a number of things present in me. Mom always joked about me being autistic because I was so "quirky" and "anti-social" and "alien" as a child. Well, you can't beat a mother's hunch, I

 Here we go again, trying to heal through a variety of childhood traumas. Buckle the fuckle up, I guess. So, my childhood was sprinkled with violence as much as it was surrounded by love. That's what you get when your parents never went to therapy for their traumas and subconsciously fucking up their children as a consequence. The only reason I could find myself forgiving them for their parenting mistakes is because I know they never meant to, and they are aware of what their mistakes caused, and they are actively trying to fix and understand our pain. Not every parent is like them, I am well aware, and I also know that their mistakes are not everything they are to me. There is a huge difference between parents who consciously and knowingly hurt their children and parents who just made mistakes.  For all their mistakes caused my childhood to retain damages, they also tried their best to show me love in the ways they had never been shown by their own parents, and I appreciate that.

 warning for typos, since I'm typing with tears in my eyes and flowing down my cheeks. Grief is a weird emotion, one I have been trying to let myself feel at a pace I could have the capacity for. It's been slow, but I know it moves. Today was a day I felt I had a good capacity to let myself sit and feel the waves as they fill up through me. Maybe because I'm going through my period, so my hormones are unbalanced, but it had its pros and cons.  It's been 9 months since Tech passed.  I am still grieving, and I don't know how long I would still be. I don't think it matters. It definitely feels weird for me to be feeling so much grief over a Minecraft roleplayer's passing when I didn't feel anything when my grandparents passed. I had no doubt my family members would look at me with a stink eye for making that comparison, but matter of the fact is, I didn't have a lot of memorable memories with either of my grandparents.  Tech helped me survive many insom

 There is a good ass reason why I only started healing after I left for college. And definitely not by fucking choice. The reason why I could allow myself to break, be reckless, be suicidal, be harmful to myself, and put myself through each and every layers of hell in college, was because I had the freedom to be. Because I had the freedom to finally fucking break like a fucking normal person, instead of repressing every single fucking thing and shoving them all inside a glass bottle and putting them up on the trauma shelf. Because if I had never chose to leave my home, my family, my hometown, I would never be granted the freedom to break. I would have been required to keep my shit together, to keep my façade intact, keep my fucking apathy wielded like a weapon to keep me alive. Because there were people who needed me to be stable, little ones who needed me to lie to myself so that I can protect them. There were people who needed me to be less selfish, less reckless, less suicidal. And

 As many bad days begin, I feel like it has been a while since it has gotten to this level. I've begun writing again in my journal, here and there, whenever I feel like I have the capacity for it. Or if writing it out somewhere else didn't work. Though I am now on my way to being 27, it just shows you that your fucking mental illness doesn't go away with age. The only difference is, I am much more aware and better equipped to deal with them than I was before. And to be fair, bad days and worse days are often rare in-between nowadays, now that my life are in a pretty good condition. It goes to show that your condition DOES get better with a higher quality of life. Well, generally.  At least I'm glad it happened on a weekend so I don't have to deal with it on top of work. To be honest, it started since last night and continued on throughout the day even after I opened my eyes from a restless sleep. I know I should be letting myself feel my feelings and sitting with th