Category: It.

Somehow or somewhere, crushes have always had been a way for me to fill in a Void which I failed to recognise in myself.

This Void is the mythologically derived Ego, which bears a narrative written along its folds and crevices. These narratives are borne from various bits and pieces of fables that we were fed since young, by our parents.

To me (and I am sure most of you), our parents were Gods who wrote the world. I worshipped them, in a society that applauded you for doing so.

Our crisis of confidence comes when our parents reveal their mortality, either when we realise how fucked up they are (Dad broke a glass and blamed me for putting it too close to the edge of the dish rack) or when they reveal that they can’t exist forever.

Dad was unpredictable and had terrible esteem, one that he would hand down like a room-height portrait. He would lash out erratically (never physically abusive), and be nice at other moments.

Of course, when you lash out at a kid unpredictably, what happens?

He thinks that he’s defective.

He imprints upon anyone who shows him a little bit of affection.

One day, his two closest friends discover a mutual attraction, which (to him) confirms that he is fundamentally defective. The confirmation seemed to be a catalyst to several years of depression which was by no means avoidable.

(It took me like, 9 years to realise how fundamental this idea of defectiveness was.

To my closest friends of my JC years who might still be reading this:

I apologise for my lashing out. I apologise to the bottom of my heart. I was a terrible baby about it. You guys did so much to prove to me that I still mattered; it took me too long to realise that this issue was simply inherent to my beliefs. If it matters any more, I’m very different now. I’m wiser. Maybe I’m too late.)

Could you believe that? Fundamentally defective.

My therapist and I worked through these narratives that I recognise. There’s an Ego and an Inner Child.

The Inner Child just wants to be loved; the Inner Child just wants to prove that He can exist. The Inner Child wants to be told that He is Safe.

The Ego tells the Child that this is dumb, this is all dumb, and what the fuck are you doing? That glass was shattered because of you.

At Ginett, they provided little bags with the words “MASK BAG” stamped upon them, and a little version of their fleur de lis logo imprinted above in red ink.

I consciously leant back in my rattan chair, staring up and to the right of her head. Part of me I wanted to look like I didn’t care when I so, so did.

“I just wanted to know…”, I bit my lip as I tried to formulate something I wouldn’t regret saying-

“What we were.” I cringed as I failed. I looked over the large table to her-

She was tearing strips of paper from the bag and dropping them into the candle-cup, with an intense, distracted wonder. She looked alert for the first time that evening, which betrayed her attempt to look fine.

I desperately wanted to ask her if she was listening, but I knew that the answer was that she was, and that she was subconsciously trying to appear cool about a heavy topic.

She would then proceed to produce various forms of excuses: “I’ve never seen you that way” (ouch, and not what she said last time) and “I’m sorry for leading you on”.

God, fucking, damnit.

I’m Twenty-Six and my bones still hurt from when she (another dear, dear friend, I love you) said “im going out with someone this coming week”.

I feel like I’ve let down a weird apparition in the form of younger, J1 Shao. He’s hovering behind me as I slouch on an office chair, begging me to not be “pathetic”. He thought I’d have everything sorted out.

You know what’s so bad about this feeling of being defective?

I truly, truly believe that in some form or another, I am so, so fundamentally defective that I will never be loved.

That I will never be safe, for I will always be on the brink of being driven away, the Beast, Quasimodo, Shao.

Even at this juncture, the Ego is at a loss for words, because this is so true to His being; this is the very reason He exists.

Behind the curtain of Oz, under the veneer of the emerald glasses- surprise! The Ego was the Inner Child all along. The Inner Child fears that he has absolutely no reason to exist on this plane. He does all in his might to find a tribe that accepts Him; but once they do, it is deemed a fluke. He seeks out yet another tribe and yet another tribe, trying to obtain external acceptance for a Belief an Old God had left behind. This Belief is a dark, inky stain that will always permeate his actions.

He has walls, eyes and ears that distort every perceivable sensorial input. Even though he has a dragon’s hoard of evidence that He is likable, His Belief corrupts and renders it all worthless.

A meaningful gaze, a hug, a kiss, a cuddle, a blow-job, a fuck, a doe-eyed look, a marriage, a baby, money or a smile will never provide the love that he will existentially require.

He will never be happy, until he learns that He is good enough.

And it is not that He will never be able to rid Himself of the Belief. He will learn to handle it and observe it.

He has to learn that He is safe.

Here the tears flow.