sketchablepaperfold

an aiming to be designer, with the soul of a writer

Tag: memories

It Was – Simply – A Matter of Blindness

I’ve been struggling with a thought for a while.

After being away from the one I allowed to cause me the massive heartbreak I mentioned on My Very Own Hard Way to Self-Forgiveness for almost two years, lately, I was feeling slightly inclined to check on his online life. I resisted – a lot, I must confess. I thought it’d be a terrible choice, since I’d probably want to recover everything I thought we had. So, I was always saying to myself: Amy, you don’t want to do this to yourself. Not again.

Yet, today, I gave in. I truly did, even knowing what it could do to me. I gave in, in spite of being aware of the shock that would, doubtless, attain me. I confess that I didn’t seem to succeed in holding on resistance anymore. I was, actually, feeling the need to have, at least, a small idea of how he’s been doing.

In a way that looked completely weird and unexpected to me, things quite didn’t happen the way I suppose they would.

The first sign of weirdness and that a lot of time had gone by since I left him was that I didn’t remember the name of his online page. I truly had to search, and search, and search [almost dig, to be honest] in my brain to find the name, and, consequently, the page.

The second evident sign was that I didn’t feel like crying nor my heart ache [things that always happened, before].

The third sign of everything but normality. Well, I must confess that the whole page kinda freaked me out. [haha, I know I don’t usually write like that, but that was the most sincere way of explaining the moment]

I truly felt scared for the things I was seeing, related to the one that used to be my home. [Just remembering, there was one or another time I’ve felt scared, but – as always – I made the whole set look just fine] I felt exactly as if I had entered a horror movie without being properly warned, or as if I was watching a weird scene at a thriller. The kind of thing that leaves you uncomfortable, you know?

I wandered through his photos, obviously, and each and every single one of them led me to the same thought: “this guy is so lost”. To say the truth, he was already weird when we met but, as time went by, he got worse. The tenderness of his look that I knew so well is simply… gone. I did everything I could while we were together – more than what I should have done, probably – but I did it. So, nothing represents a weight in my consciousness.

Anyway, I couldn’t avoid thinking about who I was, back then. I really thought about that girl who devoted to him in a way she shouldn’t have, the girl who is also gone.

I simply wonder how she could find hope in someone who she knew that was falling apart, how she felt he was home, how she turned him in the center of her existence.

I wonder how she couldn’t see the truth, in all the times she said her life would never be bearable again, because she’d lost him once and for all. I wonder why she did it all. I wonder how could she hide the truth to her own eyes, pretend everything was just fine, devastating herself in order not to upset him with her opinions, thoughts and actions.

And, of course, I still think that is relatively weird for me to say that if he ever needed anything, regretted of his own choices and wanted to be a different, better person, I’d be around – in the friend zone, obviously, because unlike her, I know that’s not a healthy option and it’s not the best thing for me; but I’d be there to help him.

Well, she didn’t know how life would be without him and, also, she wouldn’t even suspect how free she’d feel when, finally, she could be able to do what she actually wanted to, without worrying about his opinion.

I can’t say that love, in general, has blind people as main characters. What I can say – exactly because I’ve been there – is that this case was, doubtless, a matter of blindness.

I confess that I had been quite nostalgic before seeing who he is now, remembering the past and the like… But, I also must confess that when I saw it and grasped the reality, I became utterly sure that the story wasn’t, at all, meant to be, and that I didn’t need to put myself in that sort of situation again.

Maybe resisting wasn’t the best move. Maybe what I really needed was to know that the one I had in my memories was actually gone. Probably, what I truly needed was to see reality as it is, and not through my charming, dream effect lenses.

Yes, I may be right this time. Watching all that made me see that I don’t want it. Not anymore. And, that way, I feel way more relieved.

So, from now on, no more haunting dates, no more haunting feelings. No more sense of weirdness. None of those things.

From now on, it’s just me, starting over. A little later than what it was supposed to be, but way more mature than before.

My Very Own Hard Way to Self-Forgiveness

I’m concluding that self-forgiveness is quite the hardest way to forgive. I mean, when someone you love does something “wrong”, you scream, you cry, you feel disappointed; but then, you get over it, you forgive the person and life goes on. You know that people do not act according to your own principles, you try to grasp that concept and try to reach the stage of acceptance.

Nevertheless, when it comes to self-forgiveness, the whole picture becomes worse. You have no one to blame, but yourself. You can’t use the strategy of understanding and accepting differences. You just can’t.

Yesterday, I was wandering through my ancient journals, trying to find any words, reflections about the reason that led me to choose the Arts field, instead of another one. I truly believed that, at some point, I would have written something about it. I’ve read 6th and 7th grade ones – which had five pages, each – and found nothing. Then, I started reading the 8th grade journal, the most complete one.

It was my final hope, since I haven’t found anything before, and I just returned to journaling during the summer after 9th grade (time when the choice was already made, and which I relatively remember). After reading a few pages and finding nothing on the subject, I decided to use the finder, and search the word Art. Again, I found nothing.

In the end, all I could read were silly things. No reflection, no thoughts on the future, no writing about stuff worth reading years later. All of those pages were filled with nonsense according to the following scheme:

Day 1 – I’m so in love with Subject A. I truly hope that we’re meant to be!

Day 2 – I’ve been talking a lot with Subject B. I think I might have a crush on him.

Day 3 – OMG, I’m so into Subject A!

Day 4Subject C asked me on a date. I don’t know if I should go, since I’m completely into Subject B!

Day 5 – Date with Subject C was great! I think I’m in love with him.

And this crap goes on and on and on during… let’s say: four years, I guess.

The world can’t have the smallest idea of how bad I felt when I read those pages. I had the vague idea that my life had been relatively normal, and that I had written something worth my own reading. After all, it couldn’t be further from what I thought!

This is actually my point with self-forgiveness. It’s been four years since I left 9th grade and all it implied. Now, I had no idea of who I was, back then. In the end, my idea of myself was completely wrong.

My current idea involved the existence of a brain, and not such hideous stuff! I had no idea that I was so confuse, always changing my “feelings” [honestly think they were only sensations, but ok]. I would never think that I was so in and out of love that easily.

Honestly, it all made me think about the present. I’ve recently found out that I wasn’t trying to do the right thing. I’ve already introduced you to B, the one I’ve been liking since almost two years ago.

To make to long story short, I had a massive heartbreak a few months before meeting B [and when I say massive, I really mean it. I’m totally aware that it’s not exaggeration] . For that exact reason, I spent half-year denying my feeling, saying that I was only trying to get him back. After a long time of reflection, I concluded that I was ready to start over.

Yet, recently I started to feel nostalgic, and missing all the things I had with him [despite he was not even close to be the right person for me]. It took a while to figure out that I was, truly, missing all the concept I had given him, since I was completely devoted to him. Of course, it’s hard to heal from that sort of injury. And that was the moment when I noticed that besides liking B, I was actually trying to replace what I had lost, and to find someone who could actually be my home again.

Wrong, wrong move. Silly Amy. You’re so silly!

In spite of trying to be fine on my own, I was willing to head back to a relationship [with someone who doesn’t deserve to be mistaken and broken by me, let’s say. Just thinking about hurting him breaks my heart]  Now, just imagine how insane I felt when I finally realized that’s exactly what I’ve done my entire life. It simply ruined the image I had of myself. Worse, I could even try to accept doing this at 12 or 13. But doing this at my age, nowadays, even in an unconscious way [which is the case] makes me sick.

Forgiveness of our very own mistakes. Self-forgiveness. Gosh, it is hard. The only thing I can do now it’s to accept that, and stop feeling “attracted” to everyone that’s nice to me. It’s so sick, and I don’t like it. Not at all. I wonder how I spent so long doing that, without even noticing. Sometimes ignorance is considered a blessing. This time, I’m absolutely sure it was awful.

Hurray, Amy. You really screwed up. You’ve finally hit the guilt course, and the collision was a lot harder than you expected.

[I wonder how will I cope]

The Past and the Future Still Enjoy Haunting the Present

Living in the past. Here is something we’ve all been told not to do. Yet, honestly, what do we do besides that?!

We’re always stuck with what we’ve done, always. What you did yesterday, built the day you’re having now, and what you’re doing now will determine how tomorrow will be. So, there is no visible way that lead us to live anywhere but in the present – at least, for a person like me.

The past is always there, haunting you, waiting for you to blink an eye and get distracted. Then, it’ll just jump above you and throw you at the floor. Or – even worse, I guess – it’ll guide you to the closest window, to watch the sunset, sigh and feel the loneliest creature above Earth.

Someone decided to create something which is – sometimes – mean: memories. Those beings which, sometimes, gently offer a tender smile to your lips but, to make it a fair game, they’ll also provide you serious heartaches. For creatures like me, doctors invented – or simply discovered – the broken heart disease. Therefore, at least, I’ll be “allowed” to say that I’ve got a heartache, so yes, I love it! [I’d like a bit of sarcasm, please!]

A person will think about the past – at least, about what she did yesterday. But the catch is that yesterday is so close, that it seems to have happened one hour ago. Curious thing, the psychological view of time, ha?! And, of course, a person will always think about the future: what will we have for lunch or dinner? What will I tell at the meeting, next week? What will I tell him, tomorrow?

See, our notion of tomorrow is quite similar with the idea we’ve got of yesterday: they both seem too close to be denied, labeled as something different from the present moment, and we just accept them as part of the family, as someone who’s sleeping in our guest room. We nod, we smile, and we resign.

People often say that we must live the present, and consider it as a gift. I’m just deducing that, when we’re thinking about one hour ago, or ten minutes from now, we’re not living the present. We’re just stuck at what we did, and what we’ll do, but haven’t done yet. The curious thing is that I tend to take my thought utopias about the future – even that future that will happen tomorrow – as granted, just as if they were actual truths, or better, memories.

For example, right now, I’m not living the present. I’m just here, writing, settling down my ideas, thinking. In that very moment, I presume, a voice will rise and say But, my dear, thinking is a way of living. And then, I’ll just be quite rude and disagree. No, I don’t think that thinking is a way of living. It’s just a way for a person – in this case, me – to feel better about the whole outlook, and try not to notice everything else, happening around me.

[Sometimes, I wish I could scream, and throw a few people a bucket of truths – so that their eyes opened and they truly could grasp reality – instead of being here, unable to say a thing. I’m truly aware, though, that someday, I’ll just lose my mind, forget everything – what I had; what I could have, but simply don’t; what they think and how they’ll react; and specially, what they’ll think about me, that moment forward – and just say it. Everyone knows that day is coming.]

It’s just like that time I said I’d throw some white ink to this blog. I’ve been willing to do it for a few weeks. A few days after broadcasting I’d re-built the color scheme, I actually did it, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t even took a week.