all those rage, and i'm still here?

thirty six

"Marionette."

I could never understand what was wrong with me. On how I feel so unworthy, or my terrible fear of failure. As I walk through the streets of reality, I often feel as if there's so much weight on my shoulders, yet also as if it's not enough—it's never enough. I haven't intended for it to be, but I became a master craftsman of pretending—as if I had completely become detached and looked utterly perfect, one that my past self had always wanted me to be, hiding the slightest inch of how deep I was feeling.

"Perfect."

That was the word. I struggled with perfectionism, often trying to become even more, and when I tried, I could never be satisfied. The bitter aftertaste of knowing anybody else could do what I aimed to was stronger, often overlooked than the hard work and effort I tirelessly put through. It seemed like there was no other path for me but failure. The people around me could fool me about my excellence, but in the slightest, tiniest breakage, they would notice. The fragile glass which is myself cracks outside, and no matter how hard I patched it up inside, it remained noticeable. And to be noticed as that was something I was so terrified of feeling.

My parents would often tell me that they were not pressuring me, but then one day it happened—I fucked up, and I couldn't get the laude they wanted me to have. My Mom freaked out, and although I knew it was gonna happen, their emotions still overwhelmed me. Just a few hours later, I opened my phone, and I was blocked. My eyes widened. I could not believe it. My selfish self-thought of one thing, and that was it. That one thought again.

The tiny crack had appeared, and I had caused it. Someone else could have done worse, but the extension of their patience has been so great. The understanding was so evident. All of a sudden, it was okay for them to make mistakes, while I was bombarded by nonstop blabbering about why I messed up, and all the judgment clouded their eyes. All of a sudden, it was okay for them to make mistakes, while I was bombarded by nonstop blabbering about why I messed up, and all the judgment clouded their eyes.

I was drowning in my own emotions, choking in my tears, and could mentally see myself skin alive—and here I was. I was a horrible person. It had always been like that. I was always the biggest enemy, in my teeny, tiniest mistakes. Now that I think of it, it must be because they expect so greatly of me. And even if it might feel good to tolerate, there was more bitterness.

I couldn't shy away from the fact that perhaps this is the reason why I feel the need to be something, to never be someone useless, because they subconsciously put all these expectations without my knowledge.

I was terrified of failure because, despite the contrast of their words that it was alright to make mistakes, their actions showed otherwise. Their reactions were by far the worst, their emotions overwhelmed me, and if it is not that, it was the quiet judgment of why I couldn't do better, and the subsequent manipulation I have worked my hardest to recognize all over the years.

It is perhaps why I am so terrified of risks and passion, knowing that at the slightest cracks, the slightest mistakes I could recognize, I anxiously beat myself up, and all of a sudden, I had become like them. The perfectionism they planted in my head was something I harvested and made mine.

I rose to become a perfectionist who fears failure, and that is why I never try. And no matter how hard I want to, I also hold myself back, lacking awareness that the rough roads of progress are what makes the process fun, and something to learn from. Now, I don't even know how to be happy, I could never be satisfied. Perhaps in every situation, in every moment, in every circumstance—it could be like that, it could be better.

But I recognize the unhealthy nature, I knew, and am aware, that I cannot grow nor finally see my potential. There's something in me that craves liberation, something that tells me I have to get away because I am never truly myself with these people.

It feels like I'm constantly on the edge, and everyone threatens to bury me alive. Their lingering stares terrify me, knowing that if I mess up, I am the immediate failure of the family. I have become a master craftsman of pretending, to present myself as someone seemingly so great, even when I'm only their marionette who they tailored accordingly to their desires, hiding even single wounds from the stabs of their infliction, the shadow of their pains, the extensions their emotions they pass onto me, simply because they fail to face their demons.