"A Movie Script Ending" is a song befitting this restlessness.

May 14, 2010

Tried to sleep at the apartment. That thing, that incubus still haunts my bedroom. I swear I could hear him laughing when I couldn’t move my legs again. I slept a grand total of 2 hours and woke up feeling suspiciously ache-y. But maybe I was just tired from yesterday. Still, it never fails to creep me out. It first happened to me about a year ago. I woke up feeling like someone was choking me and I couldn’t move my body except for my head, which I found was off the pillow suspended in the air, like someone yanked my upper body off the bed. And I was just hanging in there for like 15 seconds, my eyes wide open and seeing nothing in the dark.

Ugh, why the hell do these weird things keep happening to me? I don’t even believe in supernatural bullshit. My high school RE teacher, who was someone who supposedly “saw” things, once told me that a really tall lady was following me around, and that this lady would watch me closely while I scribbled away in class. I gave teach one big shrug. I couldn’t see a lady anywhere.

There was one time I actually saw something, though. I was half asleep in my bed when I heard my bedroom door creak open. I thought it was my little brother since I could hear soft footfalls padding on the floor. Then I felt something holding my leg. When I opened my eyes I saw a bald figure about two feet in height trying to climb up my bed, grasping at my leg to hoist itself up. I sat up in alarm and it ran away towards the door, swinging it open as it disappeared. I remember running after it, but oddly enough, my door was locked. I had locked it before I went to bed.

So I just stood there staring at the door wondering if it was all a dream. But why was my leg still tingling where the thing had touched me?

I’m going back to sleep. And I’m opening all the windows to let the sunshine in.

 

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[ day 2: ” your least favourite song ” Peacebone - Animal Collective ]

oats are 100% whole grain and a natural source of carbs and fiber. true story.

May 12, 2010

Last week I spent four days in the hospital. I was not eating properly and I kept puking until I got dehydrated to the point where my legs simply collapsed while I was in the shower. Somehow I managed to crawl my way out of the bathroom to get dressed, grab some money and my car keys, and drive myself to the hospital. I imagine that was what Peachy Carnehan must have felt like when he journeyed back to Lahore. Alone, weak, and going insane. At that moment I started to feel like I couldn’t take what life had been throwing at me all these years. I genuinely wanted to give up on everything. And I couldn’t understand why it hurt when there was absolutely nothing there. Pain isn’t palpable. It isn’t something you can grasp and simply throw away to end your misery. It’s not something you can yell at for it to go away. And this fucker was different. I couldn’t “comfort” it with food like some girls tend to do when they’re sad. I couldn’t drown it with alcohol, couldn’t soothe it with shopping, couldn’t erase it with drugs, couldn’t forget it with sex. Everytime I read a book there’d be some word or statement in it that only served to remind me of what I was trying to supress. I didn’t want to cry, and I only ever do when I’m angry or extremely happy, and I never could when I was sad. But when I drove myself to the hospital, willing my legs to function and my whole being to calm down, I cried.

But I was wrong. I had picked myself up and decided that I needed medical attention. I didn’t want to give up after all. If I really did, I would have stayed inside the bathroom, cold, nauseated, and alone in their huge house while my family went on their jolly little way sightseeing in East Asia. Having fun. Being rich. Being obliviously happy without me.

On the fourth day, the day I got out of the hospital, they called me from the airport to pick them up. I was at home watching TV for once. And so naturally, my parents didn’t think anything had happened to me. They didn’t have to know. I didn’t ask about them, they didn’t ask about me. We’re a hassle-free bunch.

I still had a lot of questions though. Like why I hadn’t been included in the trip, why I had to do all those chores while they gave the maids two weeks off, why they don’t ever really talk to me, why it has been years since they held me close. But maybe that’s just asking too much.

I was at the balcony, scratching at my left hand where the IV had been inserted when my mum entered my room. Your room doesn’t smell of cigarattes, how odd, she said.

I wasn’t home for four days, I wanted to tell her. But I didn’t.

She left a bunch of shopping bags on my bed and left the room. I wanted to say thank you, but I couldn’t. She was gone.

I stared at my new shoes, my new bags, my new watch, my new dresses. They were all nice.

I guess, I thought, this is enough.

 

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[ day 1: ” favourite song (at the moment) ” Unison - Bjork ]