Hanging by a Thread

I’m hanging by a thread,
And it’s fraying.
I tried grasping onto other threads,
But my efforts were in vain.
They were all too fragile,
And they snapped.
I don’t have much,
Yet I’m still going to throw it all away.
My time, money, and effort
Are vanishing into thin air.
I’m clinging on,
But I don’t know for how much longer.
There’s nothing much left for me;
I’m not made for this world.
I’m hanging by a thread,
And it’s fraying.

Advertisements

A Couple of Solo Theatergoers (& Excerpts)

Is it common for solo theatergoers to socialise with another singleton at the theater?  Is it a social practice that’s generally accepted and implicitly understood?

It happened once before, although this time, it was a lady who sat beside me. A while had passed before she asked,

“Are you here alone?”

Her question broke my reverie. It took me a moment to gather the scattered pieces of the puzzle and form a comprehensible picture of the social context — that she had indeed said something, that she had asked a question, that the question was directed at me, and that those were the words that formed her question. As it took me by surprise, I wasn’t quite sure how to react so I simply smiled and gave a slight nod, then turned back to face the stage and resumed my original sitting position, wondering what her motives and reasons were that prompted her to break the silence between us and to ask me that question.

It got awkward between us after that, and there were no further exchange of words for the rest of the show.


On a separate note, the following are excerpts from 3,096 Days in Captivity by Natascha Kampusch. They echo my thoughts and are worded much better than I could have.

Nothing is all black, or all white. And nobody is all good or all evil. These are words that people don’t like to hear from an abduction victim. Because the clearly defined concept of good and evil is turned on its head, a concept that people are all too willing to accept so as not to lose their way in a world full of shades of grey. When I talk about it, I can see the confusion and rejection in the faces of many who were not there. The empathy they felt for my fate freezes and is turned to denial.

That, within the evil, at least brief moments of normality, even mutual understanding, were possible. That’s what I mean when I say that there is neither black nor white, neither in reality nor in extreme situations, but rather many subtle shades in between that make the difference.

Our society needs criminals like Wolfgang Priklopil in order to give a face to the evil that lives within and to split it off from society itself. It needs the images of cellar dungeons so as not to have to see the many homes in which violence rears its conformist, bourgeois head. Society uses the victims of sensational cases such as mine in order to divest itself of the responsibility for the many nameless victims of daily crimes, victims nobody helps — even when they ask for help.

Crimes such as the one committed against me form the austere, black-and-white structure for the categories of Good and Evil on which society is based. The perpetrator must be a beast, so that we can see ourselves as being on the side of good. His crime must be embellished with S&M fantasies and wild orgies, until it is so extreme that it no longer has anything to do with our own lives.

And the victim must have been broken and must remain so, so that the externalisation of evil is possible. The victim who refuses to assume this role contradicts society’s simplistic view. Nobody wants to see it. People would have to take a look at themselves.

……It is society’s self-hate that rebounds on society itself, begging the question of why it allows something like that to happen.

I was unable to find any desire for revenge within me — just the opposite. It seemed as if I would only reverse the crime he has committed against me if I delivered him into the hands of the police. First he had locked me up, then I would make sure that he was locked up. In my twisted worldview, the crime would not have been cancelled out, but rather intensified. The evil in the world would be no less, but indeed would multiply.

The sympathy extended to a victim is deceptive. People love the victim only when they can feel superior to him or her. …But even the offers of help were indicative of what was going on inside many. It is a human reflex that makes you feel better about yourself when you can help someone weaker, a victim. That works as long as the roles are clearly defined. Gratitude to the giver is wonderful; but when it is abused to prevent the other from developing his or her full potential, the whole thing takes on a hollow ring.

Tears Falling by a Playground

I hadn’t noticed her there. I was on my phone looking up the directions and walking past a playground. This little girl looked up at me and, instantly, I knew something wasn’t right. She was slumped on a bench and there didn’t seem to be anyone else around.

I stopped in my tracks and asked, “Are you okay?”

Tears started spilling uncontrollably. I knelt down beside her and rubbed her back. Her troubles spewed between sobs. As I looked up at her, I tried to understand where she was coming from. The few words I could catch were ‘London’ and ‘going back home’.

I took a shot in the dark and asked, “You don’t want to go back home?”

She corrected me and said that she did want to go back home (to London) as she did not have any friends here.

“How long have you been here?” I asked, still scrambling to comprehend her situation.

“For a while,” she said.

“Maybe if you wait a little longer,” I replied.

“Okay,” she exhaled.

“Is your mommy or daddy here?” I asked. She looked at me quizzically. “Is your mom or dad here?” I rectified. She told me that they were at work, that she was with her aunt, and that her aunt let her go to the playground on her own.

Something clicked within her. Her tears ran dry.

“Aw, you look so sad…” I said and winced. I stood up, placed my bag on the ground, glanced at the ball on her lap and offered, “Do you want to play?”

She declined politely and said, “I think I’ll go back home now, but thank you.”

I asked if she was sure and she nodded. So she rode down the path on her scooter with the ball in one hand and I headed off in the other direction, glancing back at her a couple of times pondering about the situation.

Perhaps she realised she was talking to a stranger, perhaps I spooked her, perhaps I hadn’t comforted her the way she needed to be, and perhaps I should have been more of an adult and gone with her back home to ensure her safety.

She struck me as a little INFJ, which pains me.

Stabbed

I was stabbed in the chest. To understand what happened, I’d have to tell you how it all began.

We first met at a job orientation. He was one of the two conducting the orientation for a group of us newly hired employees. He looked like a real-life BFG, which I, as a child, would have been thrilled to see the book come to life. Intuition told me he was an ENFJ, which I was fascinated by as he’d then be the very first I’d have met. Typical of extroverts, he blabbered on during the orientation. And typical of me, I preferred efficiency and conciseness, and was somewhat impatient. I thought of different ways I could broach the topic of MBTI with him, but didn’t get an opportunity to that day.

Due to the nature of our job scope, we rarely see each other at work. It was some time after when we met a few times in passing, and one day he asked if we could leave together after work. So we talked — well, he talked more while I mainly listened. I casually mentioned something about personality and then he brought up the MBTI. That sparked my interest. I find out that he only knows about it very briefly, and he mentioned he’s an ENFP. That sparked my intrigue even further — to figure out if I was wrong and if he was right. He asked questions about my type and I gave him brief explanations. Then we parted ways.

The next time I spotted him at work, I went up to him — which isn’t something I’d do unless it’s someone I like — and shared with him excitedly that I had signed up for an MBTI training program. My level of excitement then plummeted as he brushed it off by stating that the MBTI wasn’t all that great, that it lacked substance, depth, and accuracy. That was Strike 1: to insult my knowledge and insinuate that what I learn and read about lacks depth and quality. My excitement turned into hurt, nervousness, confusion, and anxiety. Perhaps I was overreacting and being too sensitive. Maybe I misinterpreted his words. He suggested that I signed up for a different training program, one about personalities using colours. He told me that the theory was much better and I listened to him explain what it was as I genuinely wanted to learn. I made a mental note to look it up after (which I did) and then I asked if he had also heard about the Enneagram and that I was starting to read up on it. Then came Strike 2: with a look of pure disgust on his face, he asked if that had something to do with animals and the zodiac. Again, it’s insulting my intellect and dismissing my topics of interest.

I left feeling really bad and talked about this encounter with an INFJ, who encouraged me not to cut the relationship prematurely, to give it another chance. So the next time we met again some time later, I took the advice and we did the same: he asked, I agreed, and we left work together. But this time, we spent two hours talking. I asked him questions in an effort to figure out what his type really was, and from his responses, he did seem to be more like an ENFP. He asked me questions as well to find out more about my type. At some point in the middle of our conversation, there was a Strike 3: he asked if I appreciated and felt any emotional reactions to art and things like a sunset because he feels strongly about such and cannot stand it when others try to break it down logically and analyse its beauty. I told him that even though he was a Feeling type, it didn’t mean that he doesn’t have a brain, so likewise, I have a heart too and I feel things deeply. To insinuate that I have no emotions and that I have no appreciation for the arts are grave errors, especially when I had explained so much about myself to him.

Second-guessing myself once more, I continued conversing with him that night, thinking that I was just being over-sensitive. He asked more questions and I shared more things with him, revealing more of myself to him which, again, isn’t something I do with just anyone. Then comes the shattering moment: he asked how I find the work, and I said that I loved it (and I genuinely still do), but that my dream job was something else. He rolled his eyes and asked what I was doing there then, whether I was just there for the money. I felt as though a part of me shattered like glass. Money, to me, is meaningless. I do not care for money. I find intrinsic value in my work. That I’m learning, and helping others, and nurturing the intellect. I didn’t feel like he was worthy of the explanation and closed the door on him as a mode of self-protection and self-preservation. I spoke to the INFJ again as well as an ENFP about this incident and they both understood where I was coming from very well. The INFJ intuitively made the motion of a knife stabbing through the heart even before I expounded on how I felt, which was a nice touch.

Months passed and I barely saw him at work until recently. I was talking animatedly with a co-worker when he appeared, surprised to see me after so long, and invited me to head out for a meal at once. I hesitated and asked what it was he wanted to talk about. I suppose he noticed my hesitation and lack of enthusiasm, and switched to asking if he could see me privately instead to go over a few things about work. I acquiesced and followed him into a meeting room, which was where the stabbing happened:

He first questioned if I was upset with him. I asked why he’d think I would be. He explained that my last couple of email responses to him had been curt, and accused me of giving mixed signals. Now, I’ll need to explain this statement further before I move on to what he did next. I had responded directly to his last couple of emails with my standard “Noted, thanks” response. It’s how I respond to all colleagues since emails are frequent unless I have issues to clarify with them. I do not deem that rude. I see that as a standard, neutral response. In fact, I had previously sent him a couple of reports via email, each with a paragraph-long text informing him about what the reports were for, to which he never acknowledged. That, to me, is even ruder. Granted, his emails included social niceties (which mine were void of) but I find that to be fake and a waste of time. Must I elucidate how I’ve been and what I’m up to in every email response regarding work? Especially to a person I do not like? That goes against my personal values of being honest and genuine and not lying. I am the sort to leave emotional issues aside when it comes to work and I maintain objectivity and professionalism with colleagues I do not get along with. So implying that I was reacting in a passive-aggressive way already irked me.

But back in the meeting room, he carried on by elaborating that my previous emails to him had been better (even though they hadn’t contained any niceties but merely more words), and he had the nerve to lecture me on the proper way of responding to emails as though I were an ignorant child. He made an emphasis on my current age (which he had somehow found out that I had aged up since the last time we spoke, and this irked me not just because he’s finding out about my personal information behind my back but he had the gall to rub it in my face as well) and described how the corporate world is to me, that when I join it next time, I’d have to change my ways to better fit in and thrive. As I sat there taking it all in, my muscles began to tremble and twitch. ‘How stupid does he think I am?’ What he was enumerating were so elementary. They were things that were already apparent to me, and have been so for a long time. It was such a bore listening to. My mind wandered to one of his emails updating me on the company’s new procedures, where he stated that my “smarts” would be able to understand the attached documents without him having to go into detail about them. This just showed his true perception of my level of intellect. My mind traced back to another instance during our two-hour long conversation whereby he assumed I was reluctant to change — that I stuck to old-fashioned methods of working just because I stated that he was better than I was at the newer methods and I did not boast about using the newer methods like he did — and he went on to educate me on updating my work habits. When he noticed me using the newer methods at work one day, his compliment was like a backhanded slap because it was as though he saw it as my first time implementing this new method due to his advice.

When he finished lecturing me on how to adequately reply to emails, I responded: “1) Sorry I offended you. It wasn’t my intention [to which he shook his head and denied]. 2) Do you think that I’m unaware of all this?” I shook my head in disappointment at his response. I informed him that I was already aware of everything he mentioned — everything. “And you don’t want to change?” he asked. I echoed a resounding ‘No’ to him, much to his surprise and puzzlement. The twitches crept up to my facial muscles. My insides were bubbling. I felt like I was about to burst. ‘How could he lack such an understanding of me? How wrong could he be in his assumptions of me? How could I have been so wrong in my judgement of him? How unaccepting could he be?’ Asking me to change is akin to asking me to defy my values, to go against what I believe in, to be ungenuine and disingenuous — things that I abhor.

He proceeded to run through a list of the newly implemented standard operations he’d written on the glass panel. I’d already done a quick run through of the list when I stepped into the room, and they were so simple and basic — things that I’d already been doing at work, things that I valued, things that I took pride in. My impatience set in. I diverted to my neutral facial expression — I found no worth in expending energy on keeping a smile, especially when it was not genuine. It unsettled him. I mainly nodded my head. It took him by surprise that I understood things so quickly, many times before he could even finish his sentence. It was a bore listening to him, and as usual, he was verbose with his explanations. He included additional details about how I conducted my work, as though smugly showing that he’d been talking to others and finding out more information about me. He inquired whether I could tackle simple problems when they occurred had I not prepared for them. I took this as another insult. How little he seemed to know about and comprehend me. He seemed to think that reading up on the INTJ type on Wikipedia was sufficient to understand all that I am. The impromptu meeting ended with another backhanded compliment that not everyone was as hardworking as I am in doing preparatory work and that others preferred to improvise on the job.

I’m still unclear about his type, but whatever it is, it is clear that we do not get along. I’m also still uncertain whether it’s just hypersensitivity and an overreaction. And by the way, our relationship is completely platonic if you’re wondering otherwise.

Frankenstein’s Creature

Why do men live in herds… But then… massacre each other?

Where’s the logic in that? It’s insulting in its stupidity! What fool said prejudice can be overcome?

What is love?

Did I ask to be created? … I am different. I know I am different! I have tried to be the same but I’m different! Why can I not be who I am? Why does humanity detest me?

To kill me? Why then did you create me? … So you make sport with my life?

Yet you’d kill me if you could! … So why is your killing justified, and mine is not?

Master, what is death? What will it feel like? Can I die?

Piercing questions.
Thought-provoking and deep.
Questions that mirror mine.
Questions I’ve asked before the age of nine.

I am the one who stands outside the door. I see inside. But I daren’t go in.

(Describing the moon) Solitary… And sad like me… Because it is solitary… Because with all that I read, all that I learn, I discover how much I do not know. Ideas batter me like hailstones. Questions but no answers.

I did not ask to be born.

I should be Adam. God was proud of Adam. But Satan’s the one I sympathise with. For I was cast out, like Satan, though I did no wrong.

I am good at the art of assimilation. I have watched, and listened, and learnt. At first I knew nothing at all. But I studied the ways of men, and slowly I learnt: how to ruin, how to hate, how to debase, how to humiliate. And at the feet of my master, I learnt the highest of human skills, the skill no other creature owns: I finally learnt how to lie.

Haunting thoughts.
Question-provoking and dark.
Thoughts that echo mine.
Thoughts that reflect the creature of Frankenstein.

It’s Odd…

It’s odd how others view me as their close friend, as part of their inner-circle.  It always comes as a surprise to hear that expressed (explicitly) to me.  It always seems so sudden.  It always seems to form so quickly on their end when I see them as mere acquaintances.  How could they perceive such closeness between us when I feel so distant from them?  (Is it just Fe?)

It’s odd how others can be incomplete yet still live fulfilling lives and form close relationships.  In typical Enneagram 5 fashion, I’m still in preparation mode to live my life.  Like a simulation, role-playing, or strategy game, I prefer to level up or max out on skills first and read and understand all the rules prior to stepping into actual gameplay — the game of life, in this case.  I mention the cruciality of the acquisition of knowledge to others; they understand and agree but don’t seem as perturbed as I am about it — because they aren’t 5s.  I will never acquire sufficient knowledge nor be knowledgeable enough; I will never be ready enough to emerge.  That is my mentality.  I have to maintain some semblance of normalcy as the constant threat hangs over my head, where my privacy would be impinged on and my personal freedom revoked — these are vital factors to my sanity.

It’s odd how much energy others seem to possess.  They go to work or attend school full-time, do household chores, run errands, care for their children, cook meals, have hobbies, and yet still somehow find the time and energy to exercise and engage in social activities.  Doing any single one of those activities on a given day and I’m beat and drained for the week.  How do they cope so effortlessly and not struggle?

It’s odd how the various Enneagram types play such a large influential role on the MBTI types.  Individuals of the same MBTI type but different Enneagram types differ drastically from each other.  Add the wings, levels of development, as well as instinctual variants and such from Socionics, and an immensely intricate, albeit fascinating, web of personalities forms.

It’s odd how I’m capable of forming connections and having deep, invigorating conversations yet the relationships fade and dissipate.  The invigoration is laced with sadness as I foresee the end before it even begins — a sadness for the future loss of a potential friendship.  A defeatist attitude and self-fulfilling prophecy, perhaps.

It’s odd how the anxiety overwhelms me and takes over my thoughts and physical body.  It’s the same cycle: I lose sleep and go into mindless Se overload, finding comfort and escaping reality through sensation-seeking activities in a controlled yet out of control manner.  What should have already been completed has still not been completed yet, and it won’t be by the end of the year either.  What am I doing?  I want to get it over with, but the anxiety keeps me trapped.  Anxiety has its grip on me and my life — I’m under its control.  I wish to be free from its constraints, to escape.  I feel stupid that I keep harping on the same things.

It’s odd how hypersensitive I can be internally, especially when others tend to see only my rough edges.  Is it due to the tertiary Fi?  Is it exacerbated by social anxiety?  Could it be the Ni-Fi loop?

It’s odd how, in that brief moment, I saw it as pleasant.  I’ve always thought it looked horrendous.  Perhaps it was my blurry sight, perhaps it was the dim lighting, but though this perception might be fleeting, I have this moment to look back to and reflect on — so I encapsulate it in writing for remembrance’s sake.

The Intensity of Intensive Training

I spent the week at an intensive training program, and I learned so much — not about the course material and not about myself, but about how others perceive me. It’s so intense and startling that it hurts.

They found me insightful and intelligent. That the way I spoke was metaphorical and wise, that I had such a different and unique perspective and understanding, that my words conveyed such depth and meaning. They wowed when I spoke up, as though the measly thoughts of mine that I tried so hard to translate and push out were otherworldly.

The other INTJ there had the same impact on the room. It was amazing meeting another INTJ. The intensity; the depth; the mutual understanding. I learned so much about him and from him in that short span of time.

I made other connections too. Some sought me out and I also selected a few whom I liked and gravitated towards. With my knowledge, I helped them understand themselves better and eased their confusion. I seem to like the quiet ones. The little things we did for one another held so much more meaning and sincerity — those connections bore so much deeper. One said that consultancy work giving advice to others would suit me very well. Those words mean a lot.

An ENFP expressed his concern and asked me some cutting questions (in a good way). What are you going to do with all this insightful knowledge that you have? But I haven’t done anything out of the ordinary; I merely read the books, made the connections, and understood them. If others do the same, they’ll easily see it too. That’s where you’re wrong. It may seem obvious to you, but it isn’t so for others.

They questioned why I was so quiet and so private. I was the sole enigma in the room. In an effort to hide in the shadows, I somehow attracted their attention and piqued their interest.

At the end, the program drew to a close and so did the connections. I’m left questioning the oddity of the drastic differences in how I perceive myself and how others perceive me, as well as how I thought others perceive me. Why has it changed? What has changed? And most importantly, now what?