power of the subconscious

We had a family meeting yesterday. As usual, it felt like a court hearing; a judge waiting to give its final judgement. Many issues were brought up in that discussion and one of them was about the current financial situation in our family.

I don't usually concern myself with such issues. I tell myself the more ignorant I am, the more blissful I'll be. It's a pity I can't remain in blissful ignorance forever. Life just has to make itself be known to others.

We discussed my allowance and the money spent on me each month for studies and other miscellaneous stuff. The total amounted to $1000. My mom announced she's raising my daily pocket money to $20 per day. It came as a huge shock to me. I had always wanted an increment in my daily pocket money. I'm a big eater and I love good quality meals, but when she told me she was gonna double the sum of my current daily allowance, all I felt was shame. Shame that I was expecting so much from a family that I knew wasn't rich. Shame that they were wasting money on me which I deemed unworthy.

That elegiac (new word learnt from my literature modules) mood swept over me like a dark cloud and stubbornly persisted even when I was in service today.

I sat with my connect group. I didn't want to but I knew that I couldn't avoid them forever. I might as well get it over and done with. Sure enough, it was as boring and as lonely as expected.

I glanced at the screen of my leader's phone and I realised that she has created a separate whatsapp chat called the E4 core members. I wasn't invited to that chat. I would say I feel sad about it but I really didn't. I just don't know why they wouldn't let me transfer back to E21 if they don't even consider me a key member of the group. I guess they just want to hold onto me. I wish I could tell them they're holding onto nothing.

Time passes but nothing's really changed. At least the existence of Crusade proves that I can socialise with Christians just fine. I was starting to think that something is wrong with me so it's an utter relief to know that I'm normal at least in that aspect.

It's funny how church is such a holy and sanctified sanctuary but it doesn't prevent the demons in my head from screaming at me. Worship songs used to minister to me in the past. Now I'm just throwing myself into worship to avoid the thoughts that plague me. I close my eyes and I see blood. Not Jesus's blood but blood that runs straight from my cut wrists.

I don't feel suicidal but I feel some of my bad old habits kicking in. Sometimes, my soul just leaves my body and it's like I'm there but yet I'm not. I feel like I'm disappearing and in those moments of blankness, I feel contented.

I met with N today. She had a little cut on her arm. It was too straight to be an injury and too shallow to be a papercut. I felt like asking her then, "Was cutting worth it in the end? Did it take any of your pain away?"

But I didn't. I was too afraid. I didn't want to start a conversation both she and I weren't ready for. I don't think it'll end well for either of us. I admire her though. She, at least, has the courage to do something I can't.

Speaking of N, I'm working with her and E to write a story together. It's a collaboration among the three of us. To be honest, I don't really want to participate in this project at all. It isn't that I dislike N or E or anything like that. I just don't think I'm capable of writing original stories at this point. There was a reason I stuck to fanfiction stories for so long. I can't do character development. I hate my writing style. I don't like anything I write, period. If I could change anything about my past stories, I'll change them all.

Once, in an attempt to encourage me, friend M told me that I had to have talent to have that many subscribers to my Asianfanfic account. She said it like it was proof that I was a talented writer. To me, there is nothing further from the truth than that. I'm not talented. I'm just being a crowd pleaser; translating the wishes of fans into fictional stories for their enjoyment. There is nothing remarkable about that. I'm not like J. K. Rowling who created an entire world of magic based on her imagination alone. Or like Conan O Doyle who created the world sensational detective, Sherlock Holmes. I wish I was that good, but I'm not.

I wonder if I'll ever be.

Just last night, I thought of an original story plot and I shared it with the rest, never telling them where my inspiration came from. The story plot goes like this:

Title: 21 Days of Happiness

Summary: Melanie and Allie have been best friends since they were six years old. They lost contact when they were twelve but reunited at twenty-one in the same university. The girls are thrilled to have found each other again but as Melanie draws closer to Allie, she soon discovers that Allie has changed drastically since her childhood days. As a sudden loss of her family sends Allie reeling from shock and despair, an opened diary reveals the secret that Allie has been harboring all along.

Diagnosed with clinical depression since she was eighteen, Allie now intends to kill herself at her 21st birthday to break the curse she believes she has inflicted upon her family.

Now, left with 21 days till Allie's 21st birthday, can Melanie convince Allie that her family deaths are not her fault and give her 21 days of happiness to convince her to stay?

It was a surprisingly well-received plot. I sent it to M, TW, N and E. All said it was interesting. N and E were willing to work on it. I find it really ironic since it was N who inspired me to think of this whole plotline anyway.

I told M that and she asked me if the name 'Allie' was picked intentionally since it sounded so similar to N's name. I told her it wasn't on purpose and that is the truth. If ever it was intentional, it was probably a subconscious action.

M believed me but her words got me thinking:

Sometimes (perhaps) the power of the subconscious can be stronger than the conscious ones.

It's probably why I wore long sleeves to church even though I had nothing to hide. Perhaps, some part of me feels too bare, too vulnerable and too exposed to the world. That's why I wore more cloth to hide the sin and shame I felt inside.

But more isn't always better.

And despite the extra cloth donned on me, I did not feel any different from before.

I'm still drowning. It's just with extra baggage this time around.

Yet another day in life for me.