Control is an Illusion

I’ve had a lot on my plate lately. Frustration is constant, discontent is frequent, happy moments come but ultimately go. I wonder if I have become hardened, cynical, and pessimistic. Every day feels like survival, preparation for a hideous future that will somehow never fail to shock me with its infinite ugly facts about life to reveal to me bit by bit. Often, my preparation truly does help me in moments of pain, to get up and dust myself off. But at the same time, I wish I didn't need to prepare myself, to distance myself from hope and tenderness. I suppose I can also chalk up my assumed "toughness" to my attempts to protect my peace, to not let things hurt me so much, to be peaceful despite the chaos that life throws at me. I am still unsure if the pragmatic creature I've become can be considered peaceful. 

Sometimes I wonder what happened to my bright-eyed eagerness to take on the world and chase the future that’s ripe for the picking. But I do have a tendency to assume that past versions of myself were happy. It is easy to mentally turn myself into a victim and dig myself deeper into a pit of self-induced sorrow about all the sacrifices I've made and how much I wish time could rewind. So before I can even begin to reminisce on the "good old days," I immediately remind myself that I was likely not doing too much better mentally back then. Upon shutting down such ludicrous thoughts about a non-existent past peaceful and blissful version of myself, I let another chewable melatonin tablet dissolve into a minty sludge onto my tongue and flop unceremoniously onto my bed, grateful for a short break from the incessant strain that comes with simply being conscious, let alone productive. It's not good for me, but most things aren't. Might as well add one more thing to the pile. 

Life has been overwhelming, but I feel myself better controlling myself, moving forward, not letting my emotions get the better of me. I can't tell if it's a good or bad thing, as I hang up the phone after receiving horrible news and continue to soap up my dishes over the kitchen sink without as much of a flinch. I do my little tasks, each and every day. Attend classes, eat, do my chores, tidy my room, do some homework. I cry, sob, scream for twenty minutes, then compose myself in an instant and immediately fall into a deep sleep, almost as if I allow myself a mental quota for how much dramatics I allow myself to partake in before I reel it in. There's too many little things, big picture things, things in my control, things not in my control, things not not in my control, if I let it all hurt me, affect me deeply, I'd never recover. 

I’ve never been a very positive person. Most days feel like a duty rather than a pleasure. But this morning I woke up and thought to myself, this isn’t so bad. I don’t know what brought about that thought, but I’ll take it. Deep down, I know I am capable of doing difficult things. I must stop romanticizing easy things, thinking it’ll make my life easier or better or lessen its strain on me. All this chasing for validation, from others, from myself, to carve a space for myself in this society that I so desire to feel accepted in, is not for naught. Hard work is rewarding, not always, but usually. But it’s easier said than done to get to work happily. So for now, I’ll continue to take care of myself and just go day by day. Little things stick out to me, a funny text conversation or an evening eating pho with friends. I had been craving it for so long. Maybe I should do it again soon.

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Nov. 8, 2023