January 2nd - March 25th — Demon of Regret

From January 2nd till March 25th.

As I reflect upon these past few months, it feels like nothing has changed, yet everything has unfolded in such a way that it's hard to believe. So many unfortunate events have occurred, each one seemingly worse than the last, pushing me to what feels like rolling down the rock bottom. These past months have been filled with rollercoasters and somersaults that have made me question my existence in ways I never imagined. It's as if life has thrown me into a whirlwind of chaos, leaving me disoriented and unsure of how to navigate through it all. Despite it all, I find myself here, still standing, though perhaps a bit shaken. So confused. Why am I still here? Why is everything still continuing? How is this still working? How has everything not crashed into non-existence yet? I've been struggling to find the words to express this throat-churning turmoil within me. It's as if my thoughts have become tangled in a web of confusion, making it difficult to articulate even the simplest of emotions. Writing used to be my refuge, my solace in times of trouble, but now, even the act of putting pen to paper feels foreign and unfamiliar. I had to physically force myself to sit down and write. Just like that, the desire to read, to escape into the world of literature, still lingers within me. Yet, it's as if I've forgotten the language of my own mother tongue, stumbling over words that once flowed effortlessly from my lips.

It is a frustrating sensation, feeling disconnected from something that was once so integral to my being. The only question that lingers in my head is, for how long? What will it finally take to just stop? It is a question, one that echoes through the depths of uncertainty. For how long will this feeling of disconnection persist? What will it take for it to finally come to an end? I feel as if I do not know anything anymore. I feel anciently... new. Like, when a person from a faraway past steps into the present, everything seems both familiar and foreign. There's a sense of recognition, a whisper of memory, yet it's juxtaposed with the overwhelming strangeness of the world around me. Each day blends into the next, a seamless tapestry of moments that blur together in a haze of uncertainty. Time stretches and contracts, twisting and turning in unpredictable ways, leaving me feeling untethered from the rhythms of life that once grounded me. I feel like life is the shepherd and I am just a sheep moving blindly in the herd.

I have gotten used to such levels of discomfort that they have become almost familiar, like old friends that I reluctantly tolerate. The weight of uncertainty, the burden of expectations, the echoes of doubt—they linger like unwelcome guests in the corners of my mind, their presence a constant reminder of the fragility of my existence. This repulsive survival mechanism is honed through years of weathering life's storms that just keep on going against my will. I sit and watch my instinctual desire to survive and persevere push my rising bile of disdain down. No matter what I try, how many times I try to undo everything to put a stop to everything, it just does not stop. So desperately, I have latched onto austere indifference in a hope that will probably erase my existence. I have built this steel sheet that separates me and the world around me. I cocoon myself in a cloak of detachment, somehow convinced, that it's better to feel nothing at all than to risk the pain of living. Yet, even as I wrap myself in the comfort of indifference, there is one feeling that never stops piercing into me.

I am lying on my bed, squirming in prolonged agony. There is a small demon that has pinned my frail body. Regret is the relentless intruder that refuses to be silenced. It pokes me and passes through the steel sheets of indifference.  It whispers in the quiet moments, reminding me of the chances I didn't seize, the words left unspoken, the paths left unexplored. I try to make it succumb to my hefty layers of wool-gathering yet it pierces into them and entangles the echo of missed opportunities and roads not taken into the very fabric of my being. It's as though each thread of remorse weaves itself into the fibres of my existence, creating a tapestry of what-ifs and should-haves that I cannot escape. As I lie here, wrestling with the weight of regret, as though I am locked in a battle with this insidious demon, struggling to break free from its suffocating grip. But no matter how hard I fight, it persists, its whispers growing louder with each passing moment. I try to drown out the echoes of the past with distractions and diversions, seeking solace in the superficial busyness of daily life or building castles in Spain. Yet, in the quiet moments when the noise fades away, regret rears its head once more, reminding me of all that could have been. It's a torment that knows no bounds, a relentless onslaught that leaves me feeling battered and bruised.

- Oizys.

January 1, 2024 - Stale Resolutions, Fresh Trauma

Welcome to 2024, where nothing has changed. The world is still the same. Bullets are still being fired. Kids are still starving. I am still in the same clothes as last year. I spent the whole day in the same cot I was rotting the entirety of last year, wondering what my resolution for this year should be. I know it sounds like a joke, but it is not. It is probably an age-old habit that has set in inertia, and no matter how much we fail to keep up with the resolutions, we always fence off December and January with a hopeful view, thinking that whatever happened, has happened; let's try and get better starting this year. Nothing changes. You might start a new diary page with some fresh ideas, but society's script is still the (stale-)same. We go for therapy and try to heal ourselves, but the newspaper guy every morning slaps us with freshly baked trauma. We tend our garden in the winter so we can see the flowers bloom when spring comes, and we peek up to the streets to see the epoch enthusiasts chopping off our ability for personal transformation.

You say it's the quiet decisions, the daily choices that accumulate like droplets forming a mighty river. Then why are our hard-earned droplets licked and sucked by the royal pond of stagnation sentinels? You say, after all, change begins within the confines of our hearts. Then why are the custodians hell-bent on stomping on our resilience to try something new with their boots of conformity? You say it's not about grand gestures or sweeping transformations but about embracing the power of incremental change. Then why are the routine rulers throttling our personal evolution with the coded habits entrenched deep in our amalgam that wallop any kind of deviation? For how long do you think you will attribute individual drawbacks and wellness pieces of advice to the problems that require a grotesque transmogrification of intricately woven unequal threads of the conglomerate tapestry, where somewhere some are stretched thin to their ancestral cores and others suffocate under the weight of uniformity, casting shadows over the once "vibrant diversity"?

We sit in our fields of labour, yearning for a beacon of change. Some days, we succumb to weariness, letting the weight of the world convince us that our small, quiet acts of defiance are insignificant. Staring at this sea of monotony, we awaken our quiescent competence somewhere within us. Because if we don't propel ourselves forward, the suffocating grip of the corporate matrix outsources its job to the relentless assault of hunger and begar. Our pale legs and parched throats reek from waiting for freedom since forever. Can we collect all the droplets into a raging river that sweeps away the barriers to progress? Or is it just everyone for themselves, each with their own droplet, attempting to win the fight?

I begin my new year, hopefully, with a new thought, if not a new life, a clean slate, or a new page. Just me and my droplet.

- Oizys.

New Haircut, Same Rot; New Year, Same Plot

On December 31st, I started writing this at 11 p.m. I have procrastinated writing things for so long that there have been feelings covered with tarps of dust, time, and rust. What's happening? Well, a war. For days, weeks, and months, I have been yearning for the tips of my fingers to rebel and push out these emotions for the world to see (or just this creepy little corner of the worldwideweb). And all it took was a calendar change. A partition of lines between two numbers to make me sit and crap a few words. Let me give you some highlights of this so-called war machinery:

- The Battle of Self-Doubt: The soldiers of my inner child and adult critic march on the streets, declaring war. The trenches of self-doubt ran deep, and the fear of continuing to live became a formidable opponent.

- The Skirmishes with Time: Time, my relentless adversary, seemed to slip away unnoticed. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and my aspirations to write became casualties of an ever-advancing clock. Procrastination, it seemed, was winning the temporal battles.

- The Confrontation with Limitations: The demand for perfection in every sentence and every paragraph paralyzed my creative spirit. The war cry of "You are not good enough" echoed louder than the call to simply be and create. The battlefield was littered with unfinished drafts and stangant blood of dead dreams, casualties of an unyielding pursuit of flawlessness.

- The Negotiations with Inspiration: The teasing muse, the inspiration, a fickle ally, played hard to get. There were moments when ideas tried to flow effortlessly, and then there were barren stretches where the well of creativity seemed to run dry. Negotiating with this unpredictable force became a constant struggle.

- The Siege of the External World: The onslaught of modern temptations from the external world, with its sirens of social media, the clamor of daily responsibilities, and the allure of mindless entertainment, besieged my creative fortress. Distractions were like invaders breaching the walls, diverting my focus from the writing battleground.

But here I am, at the eleventh hour, facing the final skirmish of the year. The pen is indeed mightier than the procrastination that held me captive. As the clock ticks away, I'm daydreaming of emerging victorious in this personal war. The arsenal of words is my weapon, and the battlefield is the blank page. Perhaps, in this late-night scrawl, there's a ceasefire. A truce between the excuses and the act of creation. The war is not over, but at this moment, I've claimed a small piece of peace. So, here's to the war of words, fought in the quiet hours of the night, and to the hope that the coming year brings more bits and pieces.

In this very moment, we sit and ponder. Try to go as far back as possible, wondering where it all went wrong. Trying to pinpoint the exact moment we could have stopped, the exact action that could have been omitted. The battlefield of retrospection is strewn with the debris of missed opportunities and the echoes of decisions that led us to this late-night confrontation.

The ink on the pages of the past is smeared with the stains of hesitation and indecision. Each missed deadline, every postponed commitment, is a marker on the timeline of this ongoing struggle. The war drums of regret beat in rhythm with the ticking clock, amplifying the urgency of the present moment.

As the night wears on, the shadows of doubt lengthen. The pen, poised and resolute, faces the impending dawn with determination. It knows that tomorrow morning, the war will resume. The battlefield will once again witness the clash between creation and procrastination. We sit in contemplation, we feel time slipping, and we hear the clock ticking. As the night gives way to the approaching light, I gather my thoughts and prepare for the final chapter in this ongoing saga. The war between pen and procrastination will continue tomorrow morning, but for now, in the quietude of the night, I find solace(?) in the knowledge that the battle is not lost (over..?). The ink flows, and with it, the promise of (sigh...) living:

- This is never, ever a do-or-die situation. Always do or sit and wonder why, and be forced to do so by the consequences. I was in the same position when I wrote my last chapter. Nothing changed. Well, from an outsider's perspective, the insides have been rotting. Soft mass, all liquified in a bottled body. I don't talk anymore. I have stopped saying things to people. I wake up, I work, and I go to sleep. I daydream in the background to stop outside stimulation. I have erased all previous memories. Deleted all photographs. I have successfully butchered all the relationships (not that I had many to begin with...). I have not replied to a single person in months, not even the ones who live with me. I have made my life as thin as possible. She is an old, anorexic, malnourished crone. Who exudes fragility. Holding the knife pointed towards her stomach, waiting for someone to accidentally give a push, and she can part reluctantly, the way she was born. Full of wretchedness. Like a disgusting fruit with a rotting smell and dark spots on her skin. Head full of white fungus. Mouth full of blisters. Reduced into nothing but an embodiment of decay and despair. Her seeds cry, carrying the burden of a life that withered away, a lament for the potential that never had the ability to bloom.

- There is a child who lives in a house behind mine. He cries. Alot. I have never seen him. I have only heard him. His cries. Oh, the painful cries. The ones where each wail comes from the depths of the stomach and pierces into the world but hits no one. Today, it felt as if his tears were silent echoes, seeking refuge in my vast silence. But I have no place and no refuge to offer. I wonder about the burdens he carries. His voice, raw and unfiltered, makes me sick. It is almost like the wail is trying to reach my own dormant pain, stirring the echoes of my past. Invading the house of memories. Angry that it finds nothing, enraged that everything is erased. Searching further, all there is is an inner child. They exchanged looks. A look when a failed prodigal daughter sees a forefather from her ancestry. Like a disgusting tale of fractured heritage and unresolved pain that fuels a rage at the erasure of histories, at the silent screams echoing through generations. I stand near my window searching to catch a glimpse of that poor boy at the intersection of two realms, where the child behind me seeks refuge in his cries, and the child within me responds with a silent acknowledgment—a subtle nod to the vulnerability of unresolved pain. The prodigal daughter fails (falls...?) at the feet of history standing infront of her, and the forefather smites her with a suppressing gaze, a poignant narrative unfolds—an intricate tapestry of sadness and anger woven through the threads of forgotten histories.

- There is some talk about building a house. My parents talk. There is another person, I hear. Their creative discussion turns into an argument. I hear my father begin to raise his voice while the other person backs my mother's argument with reason. Soon, the voices stop talking once the father puts an end to the discussion, and there's silence. I wonder. What do we do with more rooms? I have been effectively decreasing myself to take up less and less space. The clash of opinions in the adjacent room mirrors the internal conflict, a tug-of-war between the desire for expansion and the impulse to retreat further into the shadows. What would it mean to occupy more space in the physical realm when the instinct is to shrink into the margins? The dilemma is softly interrupted with a muffled cry. I think it is my mother. I recognize the cry. It is the same cry she cries after every discussion ends. As the cry permeates the silence, it's as if the walls themselves absorb the emotional residue of the unresolved debate. The dilemma deepens, intertwining the practical consideration of additional rooms with the emotional complexity of familial dynamics. The cry becomes a melancholic punctuation mark, underscoring the emotional toll of the ongoing struggle for space, both physical and emotional.

Oh, look, we have crossed the blurry lines of 11:59 p.m. and 12:00 a.m. We have (dis?)successfully stepped into January 1st, 2024. Did something change in the physical world at the stroke of midnight? Nothing. We wrap up our day and go to sleep. Knowing fully well, tomorrow we will wake up the same way, brush the same teeth in the same mouth full of age-old blisters, pick up the same weapons of lowly daydreaming and incapability to unlevel the will to live, and fight the same war. The clock may reset, but the essence of our existence remains tethered to the unyielding grip of the status quo and the cruel leader who always wins.

- Oizys.

The Unweaving

Tonight, I sit on the precipice of my own undoing, on the verge of a cataclysmic event I can only describe as "The Unweaving." The world around me has morphed into a grotesque and nightmarish tableau, where the colours have bled into a sickly, bruised palette as if the very essence of life had drained from the world. As if someone has squeezed it to make it devoid of any emotion. Once-vibrant reds, symbolising passion and vitality, have faded to a feeble, pallid pink, a feeble echo of their former fervour. The verdant greens, once representing growth and renewal, now appear jaundiced and tainted, reminiscent of decay rather than life. Once serene and calming, the blues have transformed into a murky, ashen grey, reflecting the weight of a world burdened by sorrow. These desolate hues now intermingle, painting a grim tapestry of a world beset by malaise. It is a place where hope has withered like a dying flower, where the vibrancy of existence has succumbed to the relentless march of despair. In the shadow of this bruised palette, the air is thick with the stench of decay. It clings to every breath, a noxious reminder of a world unravelling at its seams. The once-fresh scent of earth and nature has given way to a putrid miasma as if the very essence of life itself had curdled. The aroma of decay is a relentless spectre, seeping into every corner, every crevice, and every memory. It haunts the alleys where laughter once echoed and lingers in the halls that once resonated with joy. Now, it pervades every nook and cranny, an inescapable presence, a testament to the relentless passage of time and the erosion of all things vibrant.

The morning sun, once a symbol of hope, now casts long, gnarled shadows that writhe and contort like serpents. My footsteps echo through the barren chambers of my soul, empty rooms in my broken mind, reverberating with a mournful, discordant symphony of despair. Each step feels like a rusty blade carving into my fractured psyche. Each leaf, once young and soft, is getting crunched and crushed underneath my feet and getting stuffed in the cuts and bruises, their tender innocence sacrificed to the brutal landscape of my existence, each bruise and cut now holding the remnants of a world that once held promise but has since crumbled into desolation.

The mundane rituals of existence have become rituals of self-flagellation. I scrub and scrape my skin until it's raw and red, hoping to wash away the stains of regret that cling to me like a malevolent parasite. Each moment etched in my skin feels like an open wound, a relentless reminder of choices made and opportunities lost as if the past were a relentless predator gnawing at the edges of my body. The mirror reflects a visage distorted by torment, a visage I can scarcely recognize as my own. The eyes that once held a glimmer of hope now stare back, haunted and hollow, as if they have witnessed the darkest depths of the human soul. It's a reflection of a self fractured by the weight of regrets, a face worn and weathered by the storms of anguish, a portrait of a soul adrift in a sea of remorse.

My thoughts are a swarm of locusts, devouring every vestige of serenity within me. Doubts, regrets, and self-loathing spiral into an abyss that threatens to consume my very essence. It is a descent into madness, a grotesque carnival of self-destruction. I see the voices in my head as they deplume me of my vision, like someone pinching the wick to snuff out a candle in the cavern. Each whispered thought is a deathly squeeze, extinguishing the fragile flame of clarity that once flickered within. In this cavernous silence, I'm left in the inky blackness of my thoughts, groping through the labyrinthine passages of my mind, searching for a glimmer of understanding that has been cruelly slaughtered with forced subservience and indoctrination.

As I scrawl these words with ink as dark as my cavernous eyes, I am both the executioner and the sacrificial lamb. This unweaving feels like a gruesome dance with the demons that reside within, a waltz of self-annihilation and freedom. With each stroke of the pen, I unravel a piece of my own tapestry, shedding the weight of the past like tattered rags, and in this act of self-deconstruction, I discover an odd liberation, as if dismantling the old self paves the way for something rawer, unburdened, and authentically broken.

Tomorrow, I may wake to a world no less distorted, but I will be reborn from this same wreckage. This same chasm. This unweaving is not an end but a metamorphosis, a baptism in the blood of my own suffering, and a testament to the yield of the human spirit. It is the relentless yet foolish resilience to rise from the ashes, to unearth some worth in the fragments, and to precariously juggle the duality of existence—the darkness and the blindsight, the broken and the each scattered pieces—as the raw, undeniable core part of being. It is in this ongoing battle that the haunting truth of my humanity reveals itself—a truth woven from the threads of vulnerability and resignation, despair and exhaustion, and the ceaseless floundering between the fragments of my soul and the sad, stubborn life that still manages to find its way in.

- Oizys.

Diary of a Whiny Goddess

Should I give an introduction to myself? Well, if I had to... I would not call myself a diarist. But, if I were to be one, that would be my label, A Whiny Diarist. Just a sad person whining about the cheesy combo offer of Shitty Luck + Shittier Intuition. A whiny diarist who uses a thesaurus to hide her disgusting stagnancy behind curated phrases and words. Do you think the following sounds like a good landing page:

Welcome, dear (literally non-existent, I guess?) readers, to the confessions of my oh-not-so-delightfully mundane existence. If life were a symphony, mine would be a melancholic melody peppered with whimsical outbursts and a touch of existential pondering. Consider me your guide through the labyrinth of my ordinary days, where I navigate the treacherous maze of questionable decisions and an uncanny knack for attracting bizarre misadventures.

Now, don't mistake me for a professional complainer or a seasoned moaner. No, no, no. I prefer to embrace my unofficial title as 'A Whiny Diarist' with a hint of pride. Picture a weathered, vintage sign hanging above a shop of paraphernalia that reads, 'Whines and Whimsies.' That's where I'd belong—a sanctuary for the lamentations of a perpetually perplexed soul.

You see, life has gifted me with a mesmerizing whine-cheese combo platter: 'Shitty Luck + Shittier Intuition.' It's like the universe thought, 'Hmm, let's see how many curveballs we can throw at this poor soul,' and then decided to crank up the difficulty level for good measure. But fear not, for I am armed with a thesaurus—a secret weapon I wield to veil my deplorable stagnancy behind carefully curated phrases and words that might just make you think, 'Ah, she's got it together.'

So, dear (actual and potential) readers, fasten your seatbelt and prepare for a rollercoaster ride through the depths of my mind, where I'll share (s)tales of routs that taste bittersweet, heartaches that leave an exquisite ache, and moments of vulnerability that will make you laugh, cry, doubt my existence and question my life choices and.

Join me as I navigate this messy maze called life, armed with zero humor, wit, and a flailing touch of sarcasm. Let's embark on this wild journey together, where my mundane becomes extraordinarily eerie, my whining transforms into subjugated art, and my tears eventually merge with hysterical laughter.

Grab a cup of tea, find a cozy nook that may or may not have a suspicious-looking stain, and let's dive headfirst into the unsightly, rotting chaos of my everyday existence. Trust me, it's anything but (un)interesting.

- Oizys.

Lethargy or Lottery?

A while ago, there were small yet some regular goalposts in life. Maybe assignments, internals, internships or exams. But, college is over. Now, I am free to climb as high as possible or just fall. Obviously, for me, it is the latter.

It's only been a week I have started working. Menial and underpaid. All I do is wake up. Log in. Click. Click. Click. Type some. Click some more. Update your lead. Click some more. Log out. Lie on bed dreading about tomorrow's clicking. Sleep. Wake up and repeat. I feel as life I'm going to spend the rest of my life sitting at a desk alternating my day dreams between traveling and writing about the world and killing myself. Though, I can only daydream about them since I do not have the guts to do either. It's only been a week I have started working and I can't do this anymore. The moment I start working, I am reminded of my failures and inability to achieve what I had dreamt. All the dreams, hopes, desires and goals I had built for this year, all just shattered. And, I don't think I can take this failure. My bdy is ready to pop off. There is a ball of guilt in my throat which doesn't let me eat. Every moment I just wish I hadn't dreamt about all of that, so the failure and rejection wouldn't hurt so much. I had a life crafted in my head, my wings spread, flying around the world. But, nothing of the sort happened. I am stuck here, between this wobbly table and my side of the bed. With my mother, on the other side of the bed, breathing down my neck. With my father, near the door, keeping me chained. I wish I could leave everything behind and run away and breathe some fresh air. But, it's been months I have seen the sun. Every day, I sit and think. What was so wrong with me? Why did I get rejected? Is there something so repulsive about me?

God, I feel so stuck. Stickily stuck. So stuck that I cannot even get up and walk out of this room. Just stuck here in this sticky liquid of fear and lethargy. I just coddle and comfort myself by thinking this is the waiting room. Something is waiting for me outside this and when the time comes, my life will become a land of beautiful fields. Deep down, I know it is not real. Rather, it is a waiting room for death. And, not a very great waiting room, I must say.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 31st May 2023

Waitlist Expires Today; No Offer - Feeling Low

I was waitlisted in late March, and I waited for a response. But, I didn't receive any. But today's the day; the waitlist expires, and no offers will be given anymore after this. Although, by the beginning of March, I knew I had no hope and had given up and accepted it as a rejection. I have already made up my mind to apply again next year and have accepted a job. I still feel very low and sad. After I was interviewed, I really felt like I had a chance. Anyway, it's just today, and then officially, the portal will close, and I will just have to wait and improve myself until the next session's application portal opens. I just thought people here would understand this emotion because my family and friends are not very receptive or enthusiastic about my grad applications. Just a vent. Thanks.

 

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 18th May 2023

Officially rejected from every uni this year!

Well. Done and dusted. Rejected from every university this cycle. I have no energy, no patience, and no hope left. I'm tired of people around me packing their bags and updating their lives. I hate that I can't be happy for them because all these rejections have filled me up with self- hatred. Every time someone gives me sympathy or a positive message, I feel enraged. Feels like platitudes. Then I feel guilty about feeling enraged because deep down a part of me knows, they mean well. I need to find a job. Job rejections are kicking me when I am already down. Shit hell. I wish I could disappear.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 23 April 2023

Successfully completed one month on the waitlist

I waited for three months for an interview. Then I waited a month for a result. Got waitlisted. Today marks the completion of one month on the waitlist. Life in the waiting room is weird. I feel so stuck. As if I cannot move forward. It is like restless patience.

 

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 20th April 2023

Deep in obsession - Unable to give up

I feel as if I am too deep in obsession with my dream school, and I am unable to give up. unable to accept reality. It's been almost a month I am in waitlist. People who had received offers after I got waitlisted rejected them and got second offers. I am still in waitlist. I feel practically like I don't have a chance. I know that. But I am unable to give up. But I know. That means that even if I get an offer now, there won't be much financial aid. So, I won't be able to attend. I feel deluded that some kind of magic will happen. As if they will suddenly send an amazing offer and ask me to join the programme. I am scared and sad. I feel helpless and hopeless.

How do I give up and recover from this?

 

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 11th April 2023

Reject me...

 

I know you gonna reject me in the end. Just do it. So I can start my wallowing in the self-pity phase with absolutely zero affirmation and support around me. Reject me, just click send.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 10 April 2023

How To Give Up?

Maybe I am being dramatic, but I have nowhere else to vent this. I just cannot go on like this. I am in a constant state of pressure and urgency. And I feel as if this is making me an annoyed and mean person towards everyone. I feel like slipping into a black hole.

But the thing is, my parents are not at all supportive of me going abroad to study, and they are constantly trying to sabotage my plans with demotivating talks and taunts. And even my friends keep telling me not to move away like that. I am not even selected anywhere yet...

I really thought graduate school would be my way out to leave. To leave the country and go far, far away. At least for a year. I really love studying. But, here I am, struggling to even find jobs.

And to top it all off, this application process is so, so, so... draining. Part of it is my fault because I overestimated myself, I guess. I thought I was qualified, but I don't feel very qualified anymore. My LOR process for the applications and scholarships was a complete mess, starting from looking for LOR writers to technical glitches in LOR submission to professors not uploading references in time, resulting in application expiration. I could not even take one of those English tests, because first, they cost a lot (I spent most of my money on application fees), and there is no test centre in my town, so I'd have had to go to another city to appear the same, hence the added cost. Some universities did consider waiving English proficiency proof, but some didn't. At first, my parents said if I got a partial scholarship, they would assist me with the remaining funds. Now that I am on the waitlist, they have outright denied that they won't help me at all. And there are so many things that one can't even write down to share.

I feel like I am just cribbing a lot, and I know that this is something everyone is going through in the application process. But I am just in a perpetual state of anxiety with no affirmation around me. I feel very lonely and scared all the time even though I read all of your posts here and so many people are having it worse than me I guess. I do nothing but wait all day for what I do not know, and yet I get tired as if I have done some hard labour.

The question is, is it even worth it? Should I just give up and look for jobs instead? Is mentally and emotionally overpaying so much worth it? If I don't get selected, would it all be worth it? Because I don't think I will be able to apply again next year. Maybe a few years later, if the situation permits. So, is giving up my present time, peace, and sanity for this worth it? What if I get rejected? What if I get selected but don't get enough funds? I won't be able to go. I wish there was a way to escape, and I wish I hadn't gotten so obsessed with my top-choice universities. I wish I hadn't dreamt. I fantasised so much, and now that the reality truck is hitting me, it hurts much more than it should.

I'm just so tired. How do I give up?

 

- Oizys.

I Wish To Just Be But I Am Doom

 

Oh. My. God. It feels like someone is making me vomit and then forcing me to swallow it. The constant nagging. I am on the verge of exploding. But, I guess, I do not even have the privilege to even poof a little bit. All day long, my brain keeps yelling at my eyes, "Do not cry; they are around." "Do not freaking tear up even!"

I wish I had the resources, the courage, and the ability to just break away and survive somewhere else. Every morning I wake up to survive this unstable lab where every aspect of my livelihood is tested dangerously. Every moment I break down a little more in the hope some angel would appear out of nowhere to take me away to somewhere heavenly. I wish I could just pack some things and exit. I wish I could. But I cannot. I am nothing but a body chock-full of fears. Nothing but a hole of anxiety. I know nothing of the real world. I would drop dead if I picked up a bag and left. I have no means of survival. No job. No money. No skills. No connection. No friends. There is no will to live, even. What do I do? Day by day, I feel myself deteriorating. I feel myself chopping up my parts of sanity to exchange for an unstable shelter and some food made up of taunts and mockery.

It is as if the system is built that way for us. They subjugate you in such a way that you can only survive when you follow their marked goalposts. Even if you choose to have your own thoughts, emotions, opinions, and individuality, you are shown the door. They tell you, "The door is wide open; leave if you don't like it!" But here's the catch: It is not a statement they are making. Rather a taunting remark. Because the door may be open for you to escape, but your legs are tied. They completely emasculate you from the beginning. They keep you grounded. They keep you sheltered. And when you show a hint of resistance, they mock you with sentences like that. The open door is a mockery of your helplessness. They ask you to leave because, deep down, they know you won't be able to. Your legs are chained by codependency and financial constraints.

And all I want is to be. Just be me. Maybe go to that park next to my house and read a book there. Without them constantly breathing down my neck. Maybe sit on that bench and talk to my friend. Without them blasting my phone every five minutes, asking where I am. I would like for it to just be. Please. I am just a run-of-the-mill fool. I am no believer in God. Yet I sit here with my bruised sentience waiting for some kind of magic. All I do is, while I wait, squeeze my pain with my bare wrists to get some drops of poetry and words for my parched soul. I sit and scribble all day in the hope that someone will listen to this muffled cry for help and rush in order to save me. This is just a mere act of cowardice. I hide behind this foolish, wistful thinking. Because, deep down, a part of me is aware that no one is coming. No one can hear me. No one can see me. I am insubstantial. I hold no sound, no reality. I am, but doom awaits. 

- Oizys.

Randome Diary Entry - 2nd April 2023

Living In The Waiting Room

Is anyone else on the waitlist?

I feel so divided. So many conflicted emotions. On one hand, when I got waitlisted, I was hopeful. I thought they saw something worthwhile in my application and in the interview, so they waitlisted me. But, at the same time, I see many other applications getting offers and them accepting them, and I don't feel like I have a chance. It becomes more oblivious and annoying when you don't know your position on the waitlist. I constantly feel, what am I waiting for? Should I just give up? Even if I get selected, what if I don't get a good scholarship or stipend after elevating from the waitlist?

Just want to get this over with. Just let me know, if you want me or not!

 

- Oizys.

Life of an Asian Kid: Stuck Between Rock (Ultra-Collectivist Culture) & Hard Place (Hyper-Individualistic Solutions)

The greatest challenge I am facing as a twenty-something Asian is being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

On one hand, you have been beaten into shape by this ultra-collectivist society that only values you when you are a part of the structure, an unquestioning member of the family, and a blind follower of the community. And, when you start going out into the world, you discover the concept of individuality and self-expression. You realise all the wrongdoings done to you in the name of "culture". And, when you seek a way out, a path of discovering yourself, you are bombarded with tone-deaf solutions like "Just move out", or "Cut them off". Yes, we know that. We know we need to move out. We need to cut them off. We need to get financially independent.

But, sometimes, the problem is not just moving out. Not earning your own money. It is about navigating your personhood. It is so, so lonely. No one tells you that. The transition is so lonely when you break yourself away from the "community" so you can grow your own full-fledged self. That detachment is so painful, even if you're losing an unwanted part of your body, it hurts. It is such a fragile state that we think we are not even allowed to make mistakes because God forbid if we fail, we get told how our individuality and freedom are worthless. And some of us, in our weak state, cleave back to our society, thinking failure is something we cannot afford as human beings. The journey when you realise a part of your personhood includes mistakes is normal is so difficult. The lingering guilt that stays rent-free in the back of our minds that discovering ourselves is somehow an act of betrayal. Our trained minds make us think like that because we quite literally abandon years of our manufactured lives to look for ourselves. To look for something that is inevitably ours. It is very difficult for us to leave because we feel as if we are leaving something behind, even though it was never ours but something is given to us by our parents, families, and society, from which we have to squeeze out returns and give back what we owe to them.

For years, I did not know who I was. What my likes were. What my dislikes were. What my personality is. What my opinions were. Heck, I could not even realise the reason I did not like milk: I was lactose intolerant. As I grew up and started feeling things, and my mind, my body, and my thoughts were also trying to get adjusted to those feelings, my mother would often complain that I had become disobedient, picky, or high-maintenance. She did not like the fact that she cannot "mother" me any more because I have come to know "too much". They delude you from yourself. And when you leave the culture, you are left alone with yourself. It feels like you are with a stranger. You don't know who that person is. It is scary. It is daunting. It feels as though you have to nurture yourself after being malnourished for so long. The cultural trauma inflicted upon our self-identity is so unjust and unfair to us as human beings. They never give recognition to our personal selves, and when we step out into the big world, we are overwhelmed with heavy emotions and blurred understandings. They emasculate us from surviving in any place as a separate individual other than just being an identical yet competitive "building block" in the collectivist society.

It is so much more than getting your own apartment or getting a job abroad. So many people who give such advice do not realise the amount of power such societies have on our personal lives—it is nigh infinite. To bolster in us a mindset that makes us believe we won't have any value or worth if we break away from the community. When you look into your parents' eyes, you see no respect for your education if you don't obey them. When you look into your grandparents' eyes and you see no acceptance of your love if it is not their choice. Your mental autonomy is perceived as a tool of deceit by your family. Your individuality is infantilized as an act of teeny-angst rebellion.

We seek help in that phase of transition, from chopping them off from our lives to soothing that wound. We seek help in protecting ourselves from our forefathers' haunting. We know we need to move out. We just want to take these negative emotions and intrusive thoughts out of our minds first. We seek help in unlearning all the indoctrination. We seek help in learning ourselves. And, sometimes, just sometimes, we seek a space to just vent and be understood for what we have been subjected to and not be met with blanket statements such as "Why are you still living with them if you are 18?"

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 28 February 2023

Gave my interview yesterday...

I had my master's interview yesterday. And I keep replaying my interview in my head and feel mortified.

I joined early, waited nervously in the waiting room, and tried to calm my nerves by taking deep breaths. When I was allowed into the meeting, I put on my best smile and tried to appear confident. But, inside, I was a bundle of nerves. The interview went by in a blur. I only remember stumbling over my words, losing my train of thought, and feeling like I wasn't making a good impression. As the interview ended, I couldn't help but feel like I had blown it.

Now, I'm constantly thinking about the interview and the fact that the results will be declared at the end of March. The waiting is driving me crazy, and I can't stop thinking about what I could have done differently.

I know that I need to try and forget about it and move on, but I can't help but feel like this interview was my one shot. I can only hope that my nerves didn't get the best of me and that I made a good impression on the interviewer, who happens to be the chair of the program. It is the only programme I have applied for, partly because it specifically fits my interests with its generous funding. I came across another programme to apply for, but my LOR writers have not responded to me yet.

I will have to wait for the results and see what the future holds for me.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 21st February 2023

Got an Interview Invitation -- Too Scared -- Intrusive Thoughts to Withdraw

So, I had posted here a few days ago about being overly obsessed with my top-choice university. I just received an email a while ago for an interview. It's a Master's program. I was really excited about the university. Now that I have been selected for the interview, I am so anxious.

I feel like I am mediocre, and I'm just obsessed with the university, but I never really prepared myself. I am really freaking out. I always dreamed of going to this university. Now that I am one step closer, knowing that the next step will determine whether I am able to join the programme or not, I am really freaking out. It's not just normal nervousness. I am really chickening out. I am having intrusive thoughts about withdrawing my application. I constantly feel like I am not prepared. that I am not eligible for this.

Nobody else knows I applied for this because my parents won't allow me to study at a foreign university. That's why I was applying to a foreign university in order to get out of here. But, at the same time, I didn't want to just go away and do something I hated. So, when I found this university, I got excited and very interested.

Now, I am freaking out. I also feel like I have impersonated someone on my CV. I am unable to focus on the academic essay that I wrote for this application. I love the subject I am applying for. It is my major, and I am at the top of my class, not only in marks but also because my current professors have encouraged me to take up academia and research in this subject. But I don't feel like I deserve this. I feel lowly. Measly.

I need to give them a reply to confirm the time slot for the interview. But I am unable to. I am unable to even write a response. Maybe I should step back? I feel like I don't deserve to sit for this interview. I know I will botch this interview up. Plus, I have never given an official, proper, serious interview before. I have given telephonic interviews but not video ones like this, with a senior professor asking questions and all.

I wish I had someone to talk to about this in person. My friends are not exactly interested in this. My parents—well, as I mentioned before, they can't know. I am just so, so scared that I feel worthless. There is a very vague, dreadful feeling in my stomach. But the feeling of being doomed in my mind is vivid. I am unable to eat.

- Oizys.

The Hunger Within: A Journey Through Depression and Loss of Appetite

Today, I realised that I'm not hungry anymore. But it's not because I've lost my appetite, it's because I've lost my zest for life. Food used to be my solace, my comfort, my friend. But now, even my favourite dishes taste like ashes in my mouth.

I feel like I've lost my way, like I'm drifting in a sea of uncertainty. I used to have a clear sense of purpose, a set of goals, and a vision for my future. But now, everything feels muddled, confusing, and bleak. I can't seem to find the light at the end of the tunnel, or the silver lining in the clouds.

I used to love to cook, to experiment with new recipes, and to share my creations with my loved ones. But now, I can barely bring myself to open the fridge, let alone whip up a gourmet meal. Cooking feels like a chore, a burden, a waste of time.

I don't know where to turn, who to talk to, or how to get out of this rut. I feel like I'm stuck in a bad dream, or a black hole. I keep trying to claw my way out, but the harder I try, the deeper I sink.

Maybe it's just a phase, a passing mood, a temporary setback. Or maybe it's something deeper, more profound, and more elusive. Maybe I need to face my fears, confront my doubts, and embrace my true self. Maybe I need to find a new passion, a new purpose, a new reason to live.

But for now, all I can say is that "I'm not hungry anymore". Not for food, not for life, not for anything. I just feel empty, numb, and lost.

I don't know what the future holds, or what the next chapter of my life will bring. But I do know that I need to keep moving forward, one step at a time. I need to keep searching for answers, for meaning, for hope.

So, I'll end this entry with a quote from a wise woman I once knew: "Hunger is the language of the soul. When we stop being hungry, we stop being alive." I may not be hungry right now, but I know deep down that my soul is still hungry for something. And I won't stop searching until I find it.

- Oizys.

Random Diary Entry - 19th February 2023

Forming an unhealthy obsession with my top-choice university

This might be a very embarrassing, but I just need to let it out (and, maybe, seek a bit of validation as to whether it's normal and whether other people do it or not).

 

I applied to one university for a very specific Master's program, and I am becoming obsessed with it. There is no such thing as a day or a minute when I don't stop searching for it and thinking about getting in. I know "the perfect university" might sound banal to some people. But I can't stop thinking about how perfectly it fits me. I am getting so lost underneath the heavy blanket of fantasies that I keep forgetting that my application is not outstanding. My grades, publications, and activities are not "striking." Heck, even my academic essay, on which I spent months and months researching and editing, is not that remarkable. I am still awaiting an interview letter. There is a good chance I may not get selected for an interview, let alone getting accepted. But all I've done and continue to do is religiously "stalk" my university, watch their YouTube videos, follow their every post and account, attend their model classes, attend their webinars, apply for their summer programs, connect with previous and current university students on LinkedIn, check their profiles, and occasionally compare if I have a chance (which always ends in disappointment).

 

But, at the same time, there is a part of me that knows I may not get accepted and all this obsession might come crashing down around my ears. That part of me wants to stop, but at this point I am too scared to face reality because I have invested too much, and I just want to hide behind "fantasies" while I wait for a rejection letter.

 

- Oizys. 

The Fantasy Of Oblivion

I feel heavy.

I gave a presentation on the paper I am writing. and got a poor grade. The evaluator didn't say anything, didn't ask anything, graded the paper poorly, and didn't even give any feedback. It looks like they don't support my stance on the topic of SSR&PIL. 
I received another grade today. Poor too, this one. But, this one is on me. I didn't work hard enough. I deserve it. I don't even remember working hard for anything now in life. 

Last night, I wrote for the first time in a long time. I felt a bit lighter. I had forgotten how light it feels when I put my feelings on paper in the form of words. But, I also felt something else, a bit emptier. Some more space in my head. People say it is generally a good thing. When you write to relieve stress, you feel lighter because you have space in that head of yours for more important things going on in life.

It made me think. It scared me a bit because I have no other important things to put in that empty space. It made me a question...
What's important to me? What is the worth of my existence? What do I want? Do I aspire to be rich? Or, famous? Or, intelligent? Do I love? Do I want to love? Do I want to be loved? Do I desire? Do I want to be desired? Do I want someone or something in my life? Do I even deserve to? Do I even have the capacity to want or to aspire or to love or be loved or desire? What's the shape of my future?
I do not know. I do not understand where other people get answers to these questions. Do they even get these questions or do these things come to them, naturally?
I feel empty. I just realized this emptiness is heavier. Because it's noisy. The questions echo. They have that scary devil's voice with little air whooshing around, the devil's tail strapped around my neck, choking me tighter as I skip every one of those questions unanswered. Grh...

How do people do this? How do they function? I see people planning, and building, each block filled with meaning, each brick shaped with hard work and perspiration. I wait for myself to feel the kick to do the same. But, I don't feel the kick. And now, I don't even want to feel it. Because I can't even see myself in my own future anymore or with people. When I peek into the idea of the future in my mind, I see myself as absent. Non-existent. I see myself as nothingness. Blended into the atmosphere? Or buried deep under that rock bottom after being sucked by the quicksand pit? 

No desire. No want. No hope. No success. No failure. No love. No war. Just nothing. Oblivion. Nothingness — is probably my only fantasy.

- Oizys.