The Colour of Spite

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Just a journal.

Submitted: September 06, 2017

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Submitted: September 06, 2017



LOG ONE: 6 September 2017, 10:06 AM
In movies and books, and really any form of creative storytelling media, a character has a journal. A lot of shows and such involve people reading their journal and reading their feelings bled out in the form of ink on a page. Suddenly everyone understands the misunderstood character, the character is praised for their eloquence and consoled for the harboured emotions they failed to share with their closest friends, and everything is happy in the end.

Somehow I feel that that doesn’t actually happen in real life. And it’s too passive. The main characters should actively seek out their loved ones and say ‘hey this is how I feel about things’. And it’s not like anyone is ACTUALLY eloquent enough in their daily lives to be able to create such masterful journal entries that they become an overnight sensation.

Or maybe that’s just me. I know that my inner thoughts sure as hell aren’t eloquent enough for that. So...why am I here? Writing a journal entry?

I guess that’s a complicated answer in and of itself. 1) I have the urge to write but I have nothing to write. 2) High school sucks on a number of levels. 3) I’m bored as hell. 4) Who knows? It could be good for me.

I want to gain the guts to go up to a friend that’s been distancing themself from me - at this point, pretty much all of them - and ask them ‘now what in the higgity-hi-howdy is going on, and why do you suddenly feel compelled to leave me in the dust?’

Maybe I’m just paranoid. I mean, that’s probably the case. I call it Rejection Anxiety. Is it a problem? Yeah. I’m not going to deny it. I have attachment issues. Which is interesting, considering how independent I am. I mean, to an extent. I don’t think I’m emotionally dependent. Always worried I’m doing something wrong, always worried about what other people think, etc. etc. etc.

It’s a problem when you’re aware of bad behaviour but don’t do a darn thing about it. Like - I know I shouldn’t care about what other people think. I should just be myself. I strive to be like that. But put me in a room full of other people - bam! Suddenly I’m concerned about how I look and sound and if I’m spitting while I talk and all that terrible social anxiety jazz.

Do I have anxiety? I hope not. I don’t freak out about tests or homework assignments - unless I failed to study for the test or do the assignment - and I don’t fret over every small event to happen. I just...can’t handle social situations very well. It’s one part of me that I fail to understand.

There are a lot of things I don’t understand. For starters, why I’m starting another journal. I’ve been trying to be a regular diary-writer for years, but I can never get more than a few entries in before losing patience or interest. There’s so much of an allure around writing diaries. I think it all started with ‘Diary of a Wimpy Kid’. It was such a sensation, now everyone and their dog thinks it’s cool to do something like that. And that’s not to say that emoting through literature is a bad thing necessarily. It just rubs off as very cathartic.

Which, I suppose, is one of my problems with diary-writing. It’s the cathartic element. For me, writing is all about stories and structure and characters and plot. I have become so much of a Plot Junkie that I see plot and story in everything in my life. I’ve always looked down on cathartic writing. That’s not the purpose of writing. Because no one cares about the fact that you’re girlfriend broke up with you or that your dad died before you were born. No one cares what you had for breakfast and no one will care when you die.

I guess that’s a rather nihilistic outlook on life, and on diary-writing. But I saw online that historians like to find diary entries from random joe shmoes that have had nothing interesting happen to them. It's fascinating to them. And I guess...I’m just doing my part for future generations who - for some bizarre reason - want to know just how much of a hellscape 2017 was.

Granted, it’s not as bad as 2016. And not EVERYONE is dead. Maybe I’m just in a bad mood today. I have a lot of moods. I’m either really happy or really depressed. Not much of an in-between with me.

I digress. If you’re reading this and you’re some magical historian from the future or whatever, reading this account of the past in search of clues regarding what it was like before everything went downhill or whatever, you’re in luck I guess?
I suppose I’ll start with the basics for your sake then, even though I have a strong hate for all that expositional stuff.

I won’t share my name because I intend to put this out on the internet, and God knows what kind of weirdos might read it out there. But I can tell you that my name is supposed to be Hawaiian, except that my dad spelled it wrong and now it’s just gibberish and honestly that sucks. No one can pronounce it right on the first go. My last name is Polish, and my middle name is from the Bible.

Yeah, I’m a bit of a melting pot.

I’m fifteen, soon to turn sixteen in a few months. And I think I’m female? Physically and biologically. But I could identify as agender - which means you don’t identify as a gender. Still trying to figure that out. For now I’ve come to a compromise and identify as demigirl. For all I know that could change in the future.

Orientation/preference? Asexual/aromantic. But I think I should be fully entitled to just say queerplatonic. Which means the kind of relationship I’m interested in is a queerplatonic relationship. That kind of relationship is BASICALLY like a regular couple where you do regular couple stuff, but without the romance and stuff. Like really really intense friendship.

I’m Muslim, and I’m caucasian. People always ask me ‘what’s your ethnicity?’ because I have a hijab on my head and they instantly think that means I have some kind of ‘exotic’ ancestry. The most ‘exotic’ I get is ? Hawaiian, which I get from my great-grandma on my dad’s side. My parents say that that’s enough to claim on forms and applications. Diversity apparently increases your chances of getting into a good college. And that’s all good and well, but IS ? enough Hawaiian blood to count? I don’t think so. I hardly know the first thing about my ancestry. I do know, however, that my Hawaiian ancestor cursed my family. Now someone in each generation has to be named Rebekah or else - doom! Doom! Dishonour! All that fun jazz. Luckily, Rebekah happens to be my middle name (my mom claims it’s pure coincidence, but perhaps it’s fate?)

Okay, we’ve got the gritty stuff out of the way. Granted, no one really cares. I don’t think even I care to some extent. I’d like to think I’m an optimistic nihilist. Maybe it’s just a phase.

Unlike most diary-writers, I do NOT fear the day my friends and family find my diary and intrude upon my innermost thoughts lest they discover what I REALLY think. I’m a pretty open book. In fact, I WISH they’d find this and read it. But that’s no way to act. I have to actually openly say ‘guess what guys? Here’s what’s on my mind’. Having them find out via journal entry feels so...passive aggressive? Distant? Impersonal? It seems mean. I always make a point to try and be as open with my friends as possible.

Although I’m not sure I should call them that, though. Friends, I mean.

Robin Williams said, “I used to think the worst thing was to end up alone. It’s not. The worst thing in life is to end up with people that make you feel alone.” And that’s where the problem arises.

When I’m with them, I feel alone and sad and anxious and scared. They always want to hang out with and talk to other people. I feel kinda like an extra.

I’ve always been an extra. Always been that one friend that’s kind awkwardly shoe-horned into the group and expected to fit in seamlessly. I don’t feel like I can be myself around them. Since elementary school. I’m not usually people’s first choice to hang out with, it’s never ‘I want to hang out with you, specifically, because you are amazing and we all love you and I’m happy to be your friend’. It’s more of, ‘well we’re all a friend group and you are a part of that friend group and by some force of obligation and pity I must also include you in our antics’. That’s how it feels.

But it’s not like I should complain. I really shouldn’t. At least I’m being included. I’m torn between dealing with it because they’re nice people and I appreciate the friendship we share - and putting my foot down and demanding better.

Is that selfish? Is it too selfish of me to want more from a relationship? They already provide so much for me.

Maybe I’m still reeling from my sister. Maybe I’m still reeling from all the rejections and abandonment in my past.

Oh boo hoo. It’s not that bad. Other people have had FAR worse. At least I can say they’re not bullying or peer-pressuring me. It’s just a bit of off-handed neglect. I’m a big kid, I can handle this.

I SHOULD handle this.

Still, I’m going to talk to the counselor. I don’t think I want to talk about the friend issues, though. I always talk about friend issues with her. I don’t want to bore her to death with the same forsaken narrative as every other time. This time, I want to talk about a textbook mix-up and if she can identify what’s up in my head.

My mom says nothing is wrong with me and that I’m all fine in the head. And I’m sure she’s right. I’m sure I’m overreacting or just trying to be a special snowflake. But what if there is something not all right up in my head?

Then again, I have Functional Neurological Disorder - shouldn’t that be enough for me? Apparently not, apparently I need to have OCD too. Probably just being an attention-seeker.

I talked to my mom about it. She said, “Oh, you probably have OCD. I could have told you that.”

And some online OCD screening tests said I probably have OCD. One said that if you scored a fifteen or higher then you probably had OCD and should get diagnosed. I scored a 28.

But the results might have been sabotaged by my desire to be something special. Something unique. For an explanation to why my head is so messed up.

To explain - I have some weird thoughts. Sometimes I get these flashes in my head of doing something bad to myself or someone else. Like running the car into a mailbox or house. Or pulling my pants down. Or hitting someone. Lately it’s just been an ever-intrusive stream of cuss words in my head. My voice in my head, f-ing this and d-ing that - at even the minor inconveniences.

And people who know me, know that I am a bit of a stickler about cussing. I’m very anti-cussing. They are heavy words that should only be used for heavy moments, not to be thrown around casually like it’s nothing.

The images and sounds disconcert me deeply, and they keep playing over and over and over and over and over and they don’t stop and it kills me a bit inside. Because I can’t make them stop and I just have to clench my jaw and strain my eyes and mentally scream in my head until the thoughts subside and let me think clearly.

And I wring my hands a lot. And I can’t handle certain physical sensations. I don’t like it when certain things are out of order, or when things aren’t a certain way. I have to sit in the same spot every day. Things have to be a certain way, following a certain routine, or else it won’t work or I won’t like it. I don’t like the red squiggles that appear under incorrect spelling and I hate incorrect spelling in general. I have to correct it, and incorrect grammar. I could just be a grammar enthusiast. Things have to be straight and parallel and in order. Not necessarily a neat order, but an order that makes sense to me. Maybe I'm just a perfectionist or a control freak.

I can’t handle it if my socks aren’t the same height, or if I’m wearing short socks. I have to have the long or semi-long ones. And I HAVE to wear socks, because otherwise my bare feet will touch and that is a terrible sensation. To me, skin on skin is a gross feeling. I don’t like shoelaces much, but I can handle it. I don’t like jewelry a whole lot, but I’m proud to say that I’ve been wearing a rubber ‘Proud To Be Muslim’ bracelet since July and that is quite the achievement. Only now I can’t go without it or I’ll be - you guessed it- uncomfortable. And I need sunglasses at all times, everywhere.

Maybe these things are just that - things. Irrelevant idiosyncrasies and that I should just suck it up and accept that I’m a weird person. Maybe there’s something more. I don’t know. That’s why I’m going to talk to the counselor.

And I guess, that’s also why I’m writing about it. I might have just slightly underestimated the value of cathartic writing. It was nice to get this off my chest. I hate talking to people about it because then the conversation is all about me, and it makes me feel a bit like a Mary Sue. Like a main character. Because with main characters, every conflict and conversation revolves around them in some way. And I always hate those characters. The others never get a time to shine. And I don’t want to be like that. So I’ll just post this online where no one will likely find it, where I can get it out of my head and my system. And it’ll give me something to write, which is another plus.

I guess I’m calling this ‘The Colour of Spite’ because I’m slowly becoming aware of one simple fact: they say love is the most powerful emotion, but I’d argue that the most powerful emotion is spite.

Spite is what got me into writing, spite is what drives me, and that one naysayer will push you further than any of the yaysayers. Spite is why I strive to be a good person. Spite is the emotion that I live by, the law I obey, my motive for moving. I might expound on that later, but this entry has already passed 2,000 words and it’s already 11:03. I’ve been writing for an hour. Probably should have finished my math homework, but whatever.

Until next time.

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