at what age did you start reading and writing. And what age did you start ruminating?
First of all, what does ruminating mean?
- Think about, consider, give thought to
So when did I start thinking about things more.
Mmm, I have no idea when I started (as in learned to) writing and reading. Probably kindergarten/elementary school, the usual. I started writing down my thoughts in 2020 during my first summer break during the pandemic. Its all gone downhill from then.
See, before that I already had a habit of owning journals, doing some calligraphy-like wordings and making tiny entries that I no longer care about at all. Back then, I had somewhat been thinking more deeply. Deep enough to recognize that I was thinking at all but not enough to be philosophical or anything (even now my thoughts are simply made up of a load of insecurities and random comments throughout the day). My point is, I knew I was thinking but it went no further than that. It was like my first sign of self awareness. It made me feel like I’d really gained consciousness but now I know that I should’ve remained unconscious. Idle.
When the pandemic started and we were sent home from school, I finished out the year and at some point between then and summer break, I migrated to my sister’s room and started sleeping in there. I spent my whole summer there, pretty much. I downloaded a diary app to put down my thoughts. The only thing I’d been doing during that summer was spiraling in sad thoughts. I had the curtains of HER room closed, lying down on a mat in the corner with her pillows and blanket, reading manga and watching movies occasionally.
I used that diary app to note everything.
How I wished I actually had a routine instead of just sleeping all day and eating whatever whenever I was actually awake.
How I recognized (yes) that I’m ugly asf (or maybe I just hate my face) and I wished (oh, I cried so much back then, how disgusting) I looked different.
How I wished I wasn’t so moody and mean to my family (I’m better now).
I wrote down how sad I was, that I know my life is too good for me to cry at all, how ungrateful I must be to act so pitiful. Did I even have the right to be sad, to complain?
About everyday being the same.
One time I tried to kill myself kinda. (LMAOO I ONLY REALIZE NOW).
I heard that if you get too hot, maybe in your sleep or even awake, you can just die.
So I trapped myself in my blanket, as some sort of punishment. What was I thinking? Maybe I was hoping to sweat out all of my imperfections and all the anger I’d directed towards my family. Using the heat to hurt myself. Guess I was hoping I’d get heatstroke. I even used a rubber band on my wrist at one point because,, Probably because I didn’t have a blade back then…that sounds terrible.
I also remember a comment my dad made.
Where did the old [insert name] go? He expressed that he missed her. That this isn’t me. And I don’t know why but that hurt. It hurt so much. Because then I knew, just how bad I am. I was a bad sibling. A bad child. A bad person. Well, yes but no. What I ended up thinking was that I was a parasite. That the real, old Tati (not my real name but why would I use that here) was good. And I was just some /thing/ that ended up in this body, displacing a good child, the one that belonged in this family, the one they wanted. That maybe that was the reason it felt like I gained consciousness. I wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place. In this mind. Maybe I wasn’t their Tati, their daughter, at all. Just a replacement, a bad one at that.
Because I knew. ‘I’ had better grades before. Was never stressed about school. Never had any problems with my family. No anger no fights no rudeness. I wasn’t awkward with extended family either back then. So what was wrong with me, I’d thought to myself. Why was I such a terrible person now, I’d thought. And my conclusion was that I’d possessed a body that wasn’t mine. I wasn’t supposed to be here.
I don’t know where that mentality went. Maybe going back to school from spring break brought me out of it. I labeled it as a period of introspection and moved on, I ended up getting an actual journal to write in. I already finished writing through one. All they’re filled with at this point is emotional outbursts. Just like these entries.
So to answer the prompt, I started “ruminating” at 13. What do you even consider rumination?
Coming back to that heat stroke thing, I really hadn’t known about self harm and suicide, not to the extent that I do now. Back then, it was more in my actions than in thought. All I felt was that I wanted to hurt myself. For being so agitated for no reason. For not being the version of me that my family wanted. For being sad without real, valid reason. For looking like I did. So I did. Even searched up ways to do so, curtesy of internet access.
As I’ve summarized it, back then I was very sad.
I guess the previous few months I’d consider myself sad as well. But my SH was because of anger. Hatred. For a body that has caused me to hate myself, me who is a parasite in an innocent body. Out of place in my personality and body, and therefore in society and social settings.
I bet it’s because of that summer that I’m hesitant to ever call myself sad. In fact, I no longer know what I’m truly feeling anymore. Too complex, but why would I call someone like me complex. Oh, I remember not liking to use the phrase “someone like me” because that would an insult to the human population to assume any one of them similar to me. I remember removing myself, mentally, from the female demographic because it would be an insult to consider myself pretty enough, girly enough, good enough, to be a girl. Too ugly to consider myself a dude. Stuck in the middle, kept there by self hatred. Go figure.
While writing this, I felt sad at some of the memories I recalled. In a detached way. Maybe that’s the real me. Maybe my thoughts are clouded by hate. Or maybe I am as bad and disgusting and unsightly as I feel. And my family had just gotten used to such monstrosity. Would it really matter if anyone besides them thought differently? I don’t interact people outside of my family at this point.
Why would I be sad at my old self inflicting harm on themself? Because I do know, truthfully, that I’m too young to have so much hate for myself. Haven’t done enough bad to deserve it. I’m not so terrible that I deserve to die, am I? I’m not so much of a burden on my family that I take more than I’ll ever give, right? Even knowing these things, I hate my guts, my physical ones, for keeping this body alive. I hate this body so much. I hate it. I hate its voice. I hate its face. I hate its smile. I hate its hair. I hate its legs. I hate its stomach and back and torso snd everything that keeps it walking.
I don’t hate the one inside of it. Not that much.
I hate that I have to be represented by something so ugly. That all of my emotions—happiness, sadness, anger, attitude, intentions, nervousness, (EVERYTHING THAT I REALLY AM, REDUCED TO THIS)—have to be expressed through this body that I hate so much. It makes me hate myself and all of those aspects. I am not my body but this body pretends to be me. I don’t consider myself ugly, this body is though. But nobody else will ever know that this body isn’t me. They’ll think it is and all that they’ll see is the disgustingness that surrounds me.
Shy is not cute on a body like this. Happy isn’t good looking on it. Sadness looks disgusting on it. Tired makes it look haggard. Oh and don’t get me started on how it makes me look in photos. Those make me want to kill myself or bury myself alive just to make this body suffer for ever existing in such a manner.
Okay prompt done, ive come full circle.