Babbling

I have never thought of seeking help from self-help books. However, I do it this time. Don’t ask me why, cause I have no idea either. Desperate people manage to do anything silly.

I ordered some from books.com.tw yesterday. While it is celebrating its 12th anniversary recently, so many of the books are on sale. I also borrowed some from the university library. This is the first time that I realize its collection is such a huge one.

It has been the 5th day that I return single. Basically I have no progress on my thesis, and I am shameless to the extent that I have had tea with my supervisor for 3 days as if nothing has happened (on being set a deadline for the work, of course). I keep telling myself, okay, he is not coming back. He is not going to change his mind. He enjoys his own life now. He doesn’t need me now. Even if he needs someone, that won’t be me anyway.

I also tell myself that I am living my own life. I ask friends for dinner. I write my new blog. I go here and there alone. I eat all kinds of vegetarian food. I laugh hard. I sleep hard. But then his image is still vivid. There are still hopes that he would ring me up soon. I know it sucks, but it really happens, ridiculously. No matter how self-help books teach all kinds of forgetting strategies and how people should live better than your ex-partner, he is still there regardless of the fact that I have followed almost all the rules.

If I dared to say that he had been treating me very badly, and waiting for him had been such a tiring job, it would be a lot better, because I would be obsessed with hatred but not something like love, concern and missing him. I do not wish that he would become my number one enemy, regardless of the fact that another little voice in my heart says “why not” if I have no courage to face him from now on anyway. I am reminded over and over again how sweet he was, how quiet he was, and how caring he was. Things and memories just don’t pass by time. Conversely, they are reinforced by time.

I have no idea when these gotta end.

He is still there anyway.

Today is the first day that I shed no tears. I woke up after 8 hours of sleep. I went to school. I picked some books for returning to the library. I had tea with Steve, May and Ma Ngok at UC Canteen. Then I sat in front of the computer until now. Everything seems normal, and I am as listless as usual.

I was suddenly obsessed with fear that I would forget how he looks like very soon, and I don’t know whether I should let this happen. I haven’t seen him for weeks. I keep an ID photo of his in the wallet, but I dare not to take it out. The same applies to the photo stickers that we took after Ball’s farewell dinner a year ago. Photos of him taken throughout the past years are stored in the old computer, and I dare not to turn it on. Some of the photos are still stored in my digital camera, and I haven’t taken it out from my bag for a week. His face is still vivid as expected, but unapproachable. My vocabulary is insufficient to describe his smell, but anyhow I remember it as clearly as usual.

I try not to think about him so frequently. I go to bed right after I arrive home every day. I ignore the old computer and the Don Don lamp on my desk. I imprison the Kam Kam doll in the most inner part of my wardrobe. I avoid sending SMS to people. I order vegetarian meals. I stop paying attention to bus routes and names of roads. I stop reading Xanga subscriptions (sorry for the others on my subscription list that I intentionally stop learning whether you are doing well because of this). I limit the checking of emails to 4 times a day. I escape from soccer news, particularly those about FC Barcelona.

Regardless of these efforts, I still see him sitting next to me. I still hear myself babbling to him. I still find myself thinking of revisiting places that we have visited, new places to take him to, and new jokes to tell him, though he might not be interested at all. Sometimes I persuade myself that I am used to doing them all the time, waiting for unknown replies at any moment. I have always been waiting for something, either acceptance or refusal, and I am used to getting refusal. Nothing is new, including the sense of abandonment and, ridiculously, the sense of intimacy derived from it.

Mom left a message that pride should not be deprived of. Somehow I can’t agree with this. If pride has really mattered, I would not have been sustained till now. The day when my pride is picked up again is the day when he is entirely driven out of my heart, but this seems to be far beyond my imagination and, probably, willingness. I really hate myself like this because, again and sad to say, this is the part of mine that he dislikes.

Records

He never wrote to me by hand. Handwriting is tiring, while you have to think very carefully before you actually write something. Editing is not easy. Making a decision to rewrite after several attempts is hard. It also demands too much sincerity and courage which push oneself into limits of no return. I guess he would not be hardhearted to tell, or to speak the truth, capable of telling, me his thoughts clearly to my face. That is why email and SMS were his only choices.

I made a record of his SMSs by typing them on the notepad, so I could free space in the inbox of my phone for upcoming ones. I typed his messages, his name as the sender, and the exact time and date when I received them. His language habit was outlandish, while he used to skip either subjects or objects, and write with self-invented abbreviations. I always misread, and I got angry with him at the beginning. He then blamed me as the only one around him who had experienced such reading obstacles. So I shut up, persuading myself as a poor reader.

I also printed hardcopies of his emails and blog entries. For emails, all of those printed were his thoughts on my temper, my harsh demands on him, and his confusion of how we should get along with each other. Or to make it simple, something negative, stressful and harsh. For blog entries, most of them were not about me, but I guessed they implied something about me. He never told me straightly anyway. I folded them up and kept them in a compartment of the bag that I usually carried to school. I had read them for hundreds of times on the train, in the office, on the bench next to UCC, and at home. Margins of the paper were all worn out, and the colour almost faded away completely. I always burst into tears at the beginning, but later I got conditioned to the sorrowful status. No matter how sad I felt like, it was just like self-accusation and self-abuse. He did not know, and I did not intend to tell him either.

Sometimes I blamed myself for not being comforting enough, stopping him from telling me his mind. I seldom listened thoroughly, and I gave no appropriate response, didn't I? Trial and error just did not work. In desperate moments, I gave up thinking of the qualities of someone whom he is comfortable to speak to, with the belief that no matter how hard I work beyond my perceived range, I am not the right one.

I am not the right one. So, this is the only thing that I can tell myself, regardless of the fact that I would never want to believe in it.

Reminders are everywhere.

I felt slightly better today, after convincing myself that he would never change his mind. The only things for me to do may include forgetting and cherishing the hope that the next one would suit me better.

Forgetting is by no means a piece of cake (I learnt this from Roadshow, anyway). I was reminded of him non-stop while seeing all those establishments, people, and even food. We watched The Double Life of Veronique. We attempted to feed a black kitten with cornflakes near a pool, and remembered that kittens drink milk only on the next day. We exchanged our ID photos on a bench. We took our last picture together at the Queen’s Pier, which was still in use, and he avoided my lens afterwards. He remembered to bring a torch with him when we went hiking. He had a long monologue on whether to discontinue our relationship on a footbridge. He walked me home. He bought me cup noodles and biscuits. He asked me to print him copies of required readings for Contemporary Political Science. He eats no vegetables except broccoli. He avoids travelling by railway whenever riding on a bus is an alternative. He has been doing hairdressing for himself since Form 6. He writes to newspapers, and posts articles not published on his blog. He shares comics with his sister. He listens to Janice and Stephy. He likes soccer as much as Ma Ngok. He likes movies as much as Hehe. He speaks as softly as Szeling. He is as determined as May.

I practised inputting Chinese characters on SMS faster. I broke his (and also Tam’s) record on Minesweeper. I bought a few issues of Soccer Weekly and read about Argentine players in La Liga. I learnt to travel by bus and minibus. I learnt to appreciate B-movies and Hong Kong productions. I waited for his calls and date by working hard in the office. I tried to control my temper. I paid attention to the updates of Pets@Work. I travelled alone to Taitung after having a big fight with him, and he met me at the airport when I returned. I imagined him jumping into my sight all of a sudden when I was damn frustrated on schoolwork. I thought about how to speak my mind more clearly. I acted painstakingly in front of him. I cried to him shamelessly. I wrote to him in English on the Valentines’ Day, with the hope of sounding subtler. I longed for meeting him for dinner. I felt jealous of people whom he talked to cheerfully. I tried to read his mind, but then, failed.

Retrospection. Resentment. Reinforcement. Curses. Self-pity. Whatever you call them.

Part of me is gone

I have been writing on Blurty since December 15 2002, my eighteenth birthday. There I have gone through my secondary school and university life, the golden period of my teenage, and my postgraduate life, which is still in progress. I am used to indicate my schedule and life pattern in accordance with the school calendar. That is, July and August are months of relaxation, since it is when the summer vacation is on-going. I always want to go to play in December, while it is the semester break. However, the above indication would become ineffective soon, when the term “semester” and “vacation” can no longer be distinguished from each other.

In case most of the people who know me didn’t know, I have gone out with three guys. My first break-up was in the second semester of Form 6, during the peak time of the preparation of Hot-La-La (sorry that I have forgotten the exact English title). I was, technically, dumped by Mr. C, but the feeling of discomfort did not last long. I thought I had more than enough friends to support my life, and being dumped just didn’t matter at all. Or frankly speaking, I was not committed to the relationship from the bottom of my heart. In the second attempt with Mr. N, I was slightly more committed, but still, in a carefree manner. After long struggles and distresses, breaking up became a gateway to freedom and relief.

Yesterday I experienced the third one. I am lucky enough to get this at the age of 22, which means that the former part of my life has been such a success. But now, I am watching part of me being torn off, with no way to change the situation. I think I have tried hard enough to be good, to be strong and considerate, but then the effort does not deserve little appreciation, while I am considered “not getting on the right track” at all.

I never think we are a good match, but at least we share bittersweet moments. Anyway, the game is finally over, and I have lost. What ironic is, I am never confident enough to be granted his promises, as well as prospect of our future. I know I knew that at the very beginning, as every body else did too. He is definitely not the one who I manage to grasp. However, what happened afterwards, was I getting into it hard, straightly and shamelessly.

The conclusion that I, 22 going on 23, finally grow from defeat, could not be certainly drawn at the moment. I just think that adolescence has come to an end eventually. I am welcomed to the real world, where love and patience just don’t play a part. Therefore, Blurty, the embodiment of memories, happiness, encouragements, discouragements, failures, success, whatsoever, would no longer be in use.

It is my youth, and I am no longer young, I guess.