Deeply flawed.

In the corner of the room, a young man sits on the faux grass, his hand holding a letter he had written. He seems crestfallen as if he shared a personal conversation with this letter. For its content, while painful, holds a glimpse of what he was like before he came to realize who he is now.

Holding a couple of people close to him, he is ever so grateful of their presence in his life though his actions hardly reveal and his voice don’t vocalize enough. He knows he is not the person past lovers fell in love with, or sought for. The girl they fell in love with was a lot more desirable and loving. Though complex in thoughts like trying to solve puzzle pieces in her mind, she got anxious over the years about herself, about himself.

The obsession over the tiniest details, the increased rigidity and aloofness. Perhaps in the public eye and of his safety concerns, he allows flickers of the young girl to pay a visit, but she doesn’t overstay her welcome back at his place when it’s just him alone in the apartment. For the most part now, that girl is gone. How can anyone possibly love him and stand by him despite the drastic changes of identity he has gone through over the course of time?

He clasps the letter close to his heart and feels a sting inflicting him, invading his space making him wish he had ignored his voice. The suicide attempts. The thoughts of erasing others, and ultimately himself becomes the bane of his existence. Days of unconsciousness and panic attacks were better off masking the ill manifestations. The countless promises he has made to himself where he would get back on track, but he’s still trying. With all his effort, he is pushing through.

Time and time again, he is reminded of how his body wasn’t that of his own. Society incites a slow painful death on him, with the repercussions of his anger like a cherry on top. Words are not much aligning with his actions of late, the language between everyone he tries to love in a state of confusion and complication. His presence shrinks when the words “I love you” leave his lips for they searched hope desperately, like a scavenger would and waits to feed on the dead.

The glassy stares.

The emotional unavailability.

The sleepless nights.

It’s on him.

The rejection he gives out to people gets exhausting and depressing, and mostly, just nothing to his family. With trust comes trauma, with trauma comes intimacy issue, with intimacy issue comes pain, with pain, comes an unwanted feeling in the center of his world. Some days he cannot comprehend why he abhors himself and vehemently rejects the care of others. Out of fear, maybe. Out of love? For who? Himself? Himself.

A story of a man hiding.

“Closets kill. They suffocate us. We drown in the refuse of our own lies, lies that say we’re alright. We’re only alright when we can be seen for who we are.”—David Husted

He sat in prim on the drafting chair, legs crossed, and fingers intertwined over one knee. On his desk sits a pot of artificial flowers, plain, and arranged poorly. He gazed at it. It was in his favourite colours, green in three shades; creamy mint, dark shamrock and dark mint green. Though it was cardinal sin and faux pas for him to own one, it saved him the thought of having to keep it alive with water and sunlight; an appealing prospect for him who seemingly lacked the innate ability to keep living things alive. He wondered if that’s all his life would ever be. “They will never know, will they?” he simpered, before sighing.

Working on his articles, he slouched in the drafting chair as he typed. Occasionally, he would catch himself doing it and straighten up, pushing his shoulders backwards and the small of his back upwards and in, sitting taller, more alert. He told himself that he didn’t want to wind up as a hunchback in a few decades time, but within a few more minutes of typing, it slipped his mind and he resumed his slouching posture. The way he sat lacked inspiration and he looked like a heartbroken man; an impression not helped by his empty stares into the room.

He had never come to terms with who he was, fearing from the backlash and ridicule that will hit him like a torrential downpour. He knew he was far from a perfect human being. He was calculative even though he constantly overthinks. Somehow, he had a way of carrying himself in a callous manner around people he had no regards for. First impressions of him were either aloof, distant, or stand-offish. Even so, he had made countless mistakes. To change himself was something he grappled with – or about anyone. Deep down, underneath that indifferent expression, or smiling face sometimes, buried a part of him that doesn’t heal from past heartache.

There was always a part of him that had a hole. Others would have emotional scars, but not him – he was still bleeding because his heart feels strongly for the pain of others. The thing was, regardless of the pain, he had a perspective that living with an incomplete soul is a form of death, and he would rather be a humane human in pain than the art manikin he owned. He had a hard time dealing with and getting himself out of the hell in his head. With every mistake he committed, he became stronger, more knowledgeable, more wary, but also harder for him to be fully open to a person. Love and feelings and relationships were never black and white or palpable. It took grounds and patience for him to apprehend these things, and regrettably enough, his realization of all these things forced him to close off from people who cared and loved him.

Stuck in the closet, somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt it was only the beginning. The beginning of an inexplicable pain, the suffering and the endless conga line of emotions that were in store for him. As of now, what only mattered to him was making through the next day.