The month of December is a very special month. Ever since Pope Julius I decided to choose the 25th day for the Feast of the Nativity, and the Coca Cola Company fabricated the icon of an overweight Caucasian septogenarian-- who despite the cold and old age persists to slave-drive a bevy of Rudolphs to pull his sleigh to travel the big big world in one night-- the month of December has become a month much-anticipated by most people, especially those in schools and offices. And this year-- two years before the apocalypse-- is no exception. I was actually looking forward to this month, and for what it's worth, it hasn't been all boo-hoo and ba-donk-a-donk. Some exciting stuff took place this month: fun stuff, cool stuff, hateful stuff, inspirational stuff, new stuff, hurtful stuff and aspirational stuff. However, notwithstanding the infectious glee that has raided Facebook, my favorite TV programmes, and-- most flashy of them all-- Orchard Road, I can't help to join the grinch this Christmas, or more specifically post-Christmas.
Once again for the umpteenth time this year, I feel drained-- really, physically and mentally. Against countless warnings from loved ones and my better judgment, I let things get to me (to say the least) and they got to me hard. This is not a call for sympathy. In fact, one of the most comforting things that a dear friend has said to me-- although come to think of it, it's poignantly ironic-- is that: There's nothing that I can say that can make you feel better. I'm all ears. It's true. That's why it's so (ironically) comforting because she understands it. I mean, I am light-years away from what you can label an ideal law student, but one thing I can do is to argue left and right, and it's nice to have another individual that's not quite me to get to it-- to that awful conclusion-- without me having to peel the problem off layer by layer.
Put it in another words, my solution is simply: I just need to be more mature-- a euphemism for just-suck-it-up-and-get-over-it. Sometimes I wish someone can educate me, give this bird-brain another definition for maturity because in spite of twenty one years of living, that's the best definition I can formulate, and frankly it's quite pathetic.
As I said before, this Christmas hasn't been all brown slush and bitter toffee. A rendezvous with an old friend turned out to be a cheer-us-up session, though accidentally, yet pleasantly. Back in the days of yore, he was a great man: a man of stature and eloquence. He carried himself with poise, his words redolent of wisdom and enviable upbringing. There was an air about him of venerable pedigree. Yet, as time went by, he lapsed into the pith of great depression. It got so bad, it bordered on clinical. I'm not saying that I'm anywhere near that-- that would be blowing this way out of proportion. Nevertheless, as I told my story to him, for just one split second-- I even almost missed it-- something twinkled in his eyes. It was a glitter of recognition. It was as if, for that one good second, a doppleganger popped by and said Grüß Gott! Then, soon after, he told his story-- a story not unlike mine. Just like that, there was someting liberating about that moment, which now I try to get back to every chance I get, though somewhat it's been muddled with, if not lost to the abyss of my frail memory.
He did say that he reached a stage where he talked to himself, aloud. A nut-case? If you asked me six months ago, I would probably say: yes. Yet now, I see it. There is something about telling a tale of tattered souls that is-- disturbingly-- therapeutic. You see it everywhere. Isabel Allende writes in Interminable Life:
To exorcise the demons of memory, it is sometimes necessary to tell them as a story.
The great Oscar Wilde in The Picture of Dorian Gray writes:
It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us ablution.
Telling that tattered tale is, at the very least, palliative. And sometimes the only person you want to convince is nobody but yourself. It makes perfect sense, doesn't it? You talk to the person whom you want to persuade and convince. Again, personally speaking, I do not talk to myself (and hopefully I will never have to). I'm just saying that sometimes we need to talk to the person within to hack off the roots of the problem; be it through confessions, crying, praying, writing a journal, counseling, blogging, binging, or even-- if need be-- simply talking aloud in places where no one's around. The answer doesn't come overnight. Sometimes even when you reach a stage where you are perceived insufferable, called names, or institutionalised, it doesn't come still. It comes when it comes. Sometimes you tell the tale because each time you do, a part of the pain withers-- with each word a thorn is chiseled out. And when you know this, you know that all you need is all ears.
So yes, I am tired. I am tired of myself being tired. I want time for me to get away and lick my wounds-- at my own pace. But time I do not have. Whenever it feels like I'm acting like a don in distress, I tend to pull out wide and imagine what others have to deal with in their lives. Cliches like Shit happens! or Life sucks, deal with it! come to mind and deprive me solace. What makes you so special? Cue paragraph 3 (see above). But the way I see it, if I don't mourn for me, who in hell would? Screw maturity, I'm gonna be a brat. I'm gonna be a brat because I can. Because sometimes, to act, think and whine like a don in distress is the only way to destress.
Happy grinchsome Christmas.
