Home?

I sit in this chair, this simple, humble office chair. It is a nice dark navy blue, comfortable to sit in, supporting me as I type this post.

The florescent tubes in the ceiling light above me lights up my keyboard, lights up my handphone lying next to my computer, lights up everything around me.

A cool breeze blows past, artificial of course, from the fan plugged in across my room.

I'm at home. I should feel all warm and cosy. I should feel loved. I should feel like I belong here.

But I don't. I've never felt more like an outcast, a being that doesn't belong to this small universe.

Nothing, and no one, holds me up when I fall into the inky blackness, a freezing blizzard, a flurry of snow blowing through my heart and my mind. I now know that that is my sanctuary.

It is where I belong. I'm in a physical home, but not at peace with myself. Now? All I can say is that I want to be alone. Just me, myself and I.

Does anyone really care? Or is it a farce, a lip-service of "Oh, are you feeling alright? Do you want to talk about it?"

I don't know. All I know is that as the tears fall, nothing stems the flow. No one is there to brush away the tears from my face, to be there when I need them, to hold me close and show me that they care.

How frustrating. When you care about the people around you so much that it hurts just to think about what you have said and done for them. What's more frustrating, you ask? Simple. When everything you say or do is misconstrued, twisted and turned, misread and misquoted.

When all you do is taken for wrong.

Go ahead, tell me that you understand my intentions are good.

I understand that you understand that. After all, you should. But riddle me this. Why then, do you give me so much flak? Why am I lambasted, blamed for things that don't turn out the way they are supposed to in that category of thinking we call imagination?

What. You think that I don't want everything to turn out well? You think that I want to enjoy the sufferings of others?

Contrary, my dear sir. I hurt, hurt so deeply that my heart is torn into two. It leads me to cry, but only when you can't see me do so simply because I don't want you to see my pain. No point having anyone worry about me.

I know you have enough to worry about. You don't know how hard I try so that I don't let you down.

Expectations are goals others set for you. While that is a good thing in my opinion, it becomes so difficult to cope with when you know that all hopes are placed on you just because you are better than the ones around you. I don't want to seem arrogant, but it's because of this that I feel so weak and vulnerable inside.

I need someone to hold me close and tell me, that when I fail, it's OK. I don't need a lecture about how I need to manage my affairs better, how I need to study harder, how I need to strive to be the person you want me, and I want myself, to become.

It is cruel. Cruel indeed. A sharp stab into any enthusiasm I feel about achieving greater things when things I achieve is met with nonchalance. Even worse, when they are met with disapproval about how I could have done better.

I am doing so, so much. Maybe you don't understand the methods I undertake. That's not your fault.

You say I don't do anything to help out. You sure about that? Then explain the painstaking work I have done in order to achieve good grades, accolades and awards in school. You think I did that only for myself?

I did that, so you will have less to worry about. I did that, so that I have a shot at getting where I need and want to go at little burden to you. I did that, to help out in a way that I know I can.

You're frustrated, I get that. So many things to worry about. I just want to lighten your load in a way I know how. You don't see it.

And when I try to explain it to you? You shoot me down. Why do you think I don't want to talk about anything regarding myself nowadays? There's seriously no point. Ask yourself if you have ever listened to me speak without a judgement pre-formed in your mind.

I'm 17, going on 18. 18 is the age which people associate independence. But I am very much your son, your child. It hurts, every single time I try to talk to you and all I hear is you telling me that whatever I said was phrased badly and hurt others.

I've grown disillusioned with talking in this household. All my life, I have been treated as the shy kid, the middle child, the one that does little or no talking. Now that I try to? A clean head shot to my attempt. I was never this cynical, at least I think so. But because of this, I've gone past the stage of caring if what I say hides cynicisms.

I very much still want to love you.

But if you just keep doing what you do, I'm sorry. I cannot find a way for me to love you anymore. It pains me just to say this.

I DON'T WANT NOT TO LOVE YOU. DON'T YOU GET IT?

You're leaving me with little choice though.

P.S. If anyone this blog post refers to reads this post, there are two things I want you to know:

1. This explains my grumpy, angst mood sometimes.

2. If it offends you, tell me and I'll take it down.