This is a continuation of my second “Fascinating Firsts” post. I hope this will be my last post about Fifteengate. Three posts max. I don’t want to clog your timelines or my blog. I really don’t want to bore you by being repetitive and tired, but I’m mostly doing this for myself (and I need to, in order to stay sane). Another act of brain defragmentation (or in general population speak, “whining”). It’s really hard because writing about it once won’t do, I still feel stuffy. The shame is debilitating. I started drafting this on a Sunday and I let it sit in drafts for a while in case I had anything to add. Except I kept adding more and more to it, so I decided on this format—so I could ETA whenever necessary.
The format itself was inspired by a dream. I had a dream that my alma mater gave me three books about this real-life historical figure—so I wouldn’t have to watch a certain awards-baiting biopic. Two of the books were biographies, but one of them was a personal diary. The diary left an impression on me. That’s why I tweeted this:
I’ve always had strong feelings about dead people getting pimped as awards-baits, sometimes ignoring the person’s family’s wishes in the process (good thing my life is dull and I’m not that interesting, because I would never authorise a biopic about me). See, that’s why I write my own RPF: Because if I don’t do it, someone’s just going to do it for me. Duh? If there’s anything I’ve learned from
this that debacle, it is that one must have full control of one’s PR. Own it.
The usual disclaimers:
- While this is inspired the real-life experience of being humiliated, it has dramatised and exaggerated (not the level of upset, but the circumstances). My real life isn’t nearly as dramatic.
- Again, I cannot stress this enough: This is half-fiction, so I am not actually suicidal—that concern is non-existent.
- These fictitious letter-toned diary entries contain profanity (this is half-fiction and here I play a foul-mouthed, unstable, suicidal character—this is not me, not who I am as a real-life person).
- I’m not a diagnosed Aspie. It would be quite a challenge for an Aspie to become an actor. If I were an Aspie, I’m not sure I’d ever get sent to auditions at all. Not likely. I apologise in advance if I sound ableist at any point of this post. If I’ve said anything ableist, just know it was not the intention.
That’s not to say, hypothetically, if I were in fact Aspie, it would have stopped me from pursuing acting. Nothing stopped me until I was humiliated for my first role by a group of established actors, and I’ve never been so sad in my life. But, being an Aspie and lacking the very skills that define what it means to take acting as profession (I liken it to being a dyslexic writer or a blind painter) wouldn’t stop me. Even if “Aspie actor” is kind of an oxymoron (which is why it would make for a fascinating fictional character—which is why I chose to make the character in this writing exercise an Aspie, although I’m not sure how that’d work IRL). In fact, knowing the industry is packed with snobs, I’d probably try to win awards—despite my belief they are illogical and not valid measures of success—just to spite the snobs (especially those who are in that the-craft-cannot-be-taught camp). Sometimes I see people speculate about famous actors’ possibly being on the spectrum and there’ll always be that person who goes, “nah, I doubt an Aspie could ever be a successful actor” or that they “lack range” and I always feel like, “heh, if I were an Aspie, I’d do it anyway just to piss them off.” Imagine those snoots losing against an Aspie… It would kill their egos. IDK why, maybe because I’m inherently… Evil? *Shrugs*
Saturday, January 10, 2015: In The Zone
So… Apparently I work at a so-called Zone-1 building right? And I frequent the area behind the Embassies Strip. Well, apparently, according to a co-worker, “Zone-1” means it’s high-risk (even if it weren’t in the zone, the building hosts embassies/consulates anyway). I know this is true and she wasn’t making this up because the fact is, during that UN internship—which lasted a mere five months alone, we’ve been evacuated twice (one was natural-disaster-related, so that doesn’t count… But the second was a legit security concern because of a bombing which took place in the Golden Triangle/CBD an hour prior). Anyway, since Fifteengate, I’ve found that I’m too embarrassed to actually run anymore. I can now physically feel the shame. Do you even know why or how I learned to become such a mad runner? It’s not an Aspie trait, that was a necessary life-skill.
Well, anyway… I’m too ashamed to even do something for self-preservation now. I can’t even bring myself to run for my life anymore. Suits my suicidal state of mind (meh). And so next time I’m there and there’s a security threat, I won’t/can’t run and I’ll just get blown-up into wittle pieces and die (but then I actually care about my coworkers, and I don’t want to be a liability to them and I don’t want the company to get the blame for failure to protect me when/if events like that occur, so I’m trying to get over it for their sake). I hope you guys are happy now… Congratulations for all the acting awards in the world and killing another human being’s survival instincts. Ain’t life grand?
ETA: Some days I’m actually tempted to off myself just to ensure the Endgame doesn’t occur—I just read this thing about him having this entire support system, team, people “vouching for his work”, fans to ‘defend’ him… And I think, “what’s there to defend?”
I want to slit my wrists so bad right now. He’s humiliated me and I’m literally alone in all this my only way of defending myself is blogging about it, and his team will probably want to bring me down if I hurt his career. I don’t know if I will be able to last by the end of today. The frustration of seeing everyone defend him is so strong. Too strong, it’s this combination of frustration, helplessness. It’s not fear, but I feel like everyone’s on his side, and it’s me alone against the world.
Sunday, January 11, 2015: You Can’t Dress Yourself
I’m going to paint my nails pwetty, quit acting, and marry a good person who treats me with respect. On #ChillaxThursday—the day I went to get that eye-cream, I also decided to treat myself to some fancy spicy ramen (delicious, but struggled to finish it because my appetite is pretty much gone—and the empty stomach in turn makes my stomach hurt) and I also treated myself to some stuff. Check out my crazy ramen hair too (no, I decided against posting the hair picture).
I’m sorry I didn’t ask to not be given a plastic bag (I was a little disoriented/dazey at the mall… So I forgot to do what I normally do—which is to refuse plastic bags). How the fuck didn’t anyone tell me about those new scented nail polish things?
I’ve decided that, since I’ll never be able to act again (can’t even look at the books, let alone audition—plus, I’m afraid they’ll get leaked, when it’s all improv usually people just end up playing themselves… I truly don’t care how self-absorbed my paranoia makes me sound, I’m scared to death. So scared and I feel helpless, all I think of all the time is killing myself) that… I’ll just hide and disappear into obscurity. I’ll write past experiences, that need to be written, because I want people to know it’s not fair to ridicule me like that when the industry standards are so shitty. I saw a promotional still for that film (with all those people) and I felt like a piece of trash/shit in its literal meaning as in I felt like I was covered in faeces. And I’m disgusting and low.
I’ve always dreaded the time when it would unearth and people would laugh, but I thought it would happen a little later, after I’ve had better work to make up for it. But it came early, I had no chance, and now it’s all ended prematurely too. And I certainly didn’t think those people would mock me when it happened. God, I’m so ashamed. I feel like they’ve killed me, but then they left my body stripped naked for everyone to see. When you’re dead, you can’t defend yourself or cover your stark naked body… Because that’s what it’s like to be humiliated by people who are more powerful and influential than you, and you know that speaking up will only bring even more unwanted attention to yourself.
I really want them to suffer and burn, I’m no saint: I want to see them destroyed the way they’ve destroyed me. This is just so unexpected and shocking to me (and I honest to God can’t think of what horrid thing I did to deserve it—normally, when it’s bad karma, I always get a sort of quick ‘flashback’ to remind me what I’m currently paying for).
I feel like I’m tainted for life. It was bound to happen, I anticipated it, I braced/primed for it… But I certainly didn’t think it would happen like this. So, ja, no more auditioning for me. I’m just going to retreat, disappear, and become invisible forever… I think I cry about 5–8 times per day since Fifteengate (think about suicide maybe 2–3 times daily). Nothing can convince me to audition from now on. Never again. I’m not sure if I should just delete all my contacts, or say goodbye/thank you first (I don’t want to have to explain why). I’ve been burned, humiliated, and bullied a LOT in my life, but never at this severity. I’m making it a life goal to become non-existent…
When will it stop hurting.
I wrote that because I worry. I worry that you and your castmates are just going to dismiss this, and make me sound like I’m overreacting, and patronisingly talk down to me with something along the lines of, “what did you expect? Are you naïve? Of course people are going to see your first role, it was a television film.”
But of course I knew that in the end, everyone would see it. I may be new, but I’m not entirely stupid. And I do have common sense. FFS, this is the breed of Homo sapiens I’m learning how to live my life from:
“Never, for the sake of peace and quiet, deny your own experience or convictions.” ― Dag Hammarskjöld
And I would never have denied it, what good would denying a truth be? It would make no logical sense for me to do so… It’s just a waste of energy. Because my face is up there, and there’s no erasing it. Being an actor means being a frontliner, you can’t just detach yourself from a project like a fanfic writer orphans work on AO3? That’s why I’m so picky about my roles. It’s not me being a diva, I’m being cautious, protecting my good name. If I attended all the auditions I was sent to, I’d probably have five roles by now. I’ve pulled out of two films since 2010, I would’ve had four by now. I take one wrong turn for taking an offer while vulnerable, and my entire life crumbles into pieces a year later because you decided that it was okay for you to add insult to the injury—as if it wasn’t humiliating enough as it is.
You can’t just make the a truth go away.
Truths are really strong… Whatevers. But the truth is just sort of…
There, you know?
The truth always surfaces. A truth is something that you can’t make go away.
You can’t just scrub a truth out. It doesn’t work that way.
No matter how powerful [you think] you are.
And my embarrassing first role is a truth, and I can’t change that, because it’s a fact of life. But the weight of facts of life differ to varying degrees, and this was an important fact of life for me, one which I’m very sensitive about. I thought I made it clear I wasn’t proud of it when I chose my second role for my first Fascinating Firsts blog post? Do you just hear, but not listen to me?
I don’t exist for your amusement. I have feelings and wants too.
But that’s not the point, the point is: What bothers me about what you did is that you made something that was hard enough for me even harder to deal with. And it was simply unnecessary. There was no need to put me down or make feel inadequate. I’m angry that you had to exaggerate it and bring it to so many people’s attention. You guys had a lot of nerve ridiculing me from that altitude.
I didn’t come into your life to steal anything away from you, Lemon. Between the two of us, you’ll always be the better actor and we both know it—so why not just let me have my five in peace? I don’t know who’s been planting those masterpieces of a smear campaign about you possibly being like me. But I know it’s not true… I know you read real life, and subtext in works of fiction, better than I ever will. You’re nearly as suave as Victor Trevor. Do you have any idea how many times I almost got raped? Because I believe people when they say things like, they “want to have an intelligent conversation over coffee” and I don’t understand that what they’re really asking for is NSA sex. I can’t believe my luck in dodging those bullets. Because there’s only so much a 130+ IQ can do to save you when you’re about to get raped. Isn’t it telling when the definition of “a proud moment” for me is spotting a fake Duchenne smile (yay, score… And therefore I fist pump). While I can spot something fake at a macro level—based on reasoning, logic, and timing; upon closer inspection, I just see two people standing next to each other and I’m convinced it’s all real, and navigating the world is just so scary and confusing and painful. I keep getting lost. I’ve never been so grateful for a group of bloggers in my entire life, because where would I be without Tumblr’s skeptics community? I’d be a hot mess. Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again. I can’t handle it.
But being a better actor than gives you no right to make fun of me.
I know I look clunky as fuck in my July 6 video—and outsiders may find that cute, but looking outside from the inside is scary as fuck, Lemon. Not that I minded when you made fun of my clunkiness (I really don’t care if people laugh at that). But again: I don’t take you laughing at my unfortunate situation very well.
Even without being born into a better situation and connections you’ll always be the better actor, simply because you’re not a defective person like me. I guess Chuckling Deity is fair after all: No human being is allowed to have an excessive amount of luck. You’re lucky in your way, to have been born into it (as I’ve recently learned, Britain’s acting community is about as meritocratic as its monarchy). I’m lucky in my own way (seriously, considering the amounts of times I’ve escaped rape). It’s just His odd brand of socialism, I suppose.
Diarist’s note-to-self: I still don’t think being an atheist is the scientific approach to life (unless one is ready to denounce dark matter as equally non-existent—seriously, prove it). I’m stubborn that way. Besides, I could use the psychological crutch. Who else is going to help me if not my little gray cells? I don’t see the harm.
It wasn’t your place to bring that to people’s attention. How could you?
I had two roles, Lemon. Two. So that was half of my entire “body of work”, for lack of better word (really, I’m not sure I’m even allowed to use that term even). And considering the nature of my second role, maybe that counts as 70% of my entire acting CV? I’m just mad that I lost the Three, I was so determined to make up for it in role number three.
You know I have no pretences of being an artiste. How many actresses do you know would openly admit they only wanted five roles between 2013–2024, because that’s what girls at the schools they attended do, WTF? I don’t even pretend to like films (and frankly I’m currently only excited about the “Pacific Rim” sequel). How many actresses do you know would openly admit they can’t do a Ph.D. because some universities’ programmes require teaching and they get stage fright (which is also the reason she doesn’t bother with professional theatre). I don’t even know who Lawrence Olivier is, or why there’s a bloody award named after him, nor do I give a shit. I just don’t fucking deserve any of that shade.
I’m not done crying—if I ever will, I’m so ashamed. I don’t know how long I’ll last sometimes. As if I need any more suicide triggers.
Monday, January 12, 2015: The Empire
I actually dreamt that the Endgame changed! I’m feeling really optimistic about disappearing. And felt better that I dreamt the Endgame is changing. I just need to stop crying like eight times a day. When it’s not hurting, I can’t really feel much (sometimes even my face is numb).
I sat quietly at the kind IT Guy’s farewell party and it was gezellig. And people’s kindness everywhere warmed my heart. Even on the bus. I forgot to wear BB cream but lucky for me my moisturiser has SPF, so it was fine (I think that was enough SPF to protect me from the Evil Forces). I’m not sure if I’ll cut my hair (apparently my new shampoo/conditioner gives it these lovely waves after I’ve braided them). But I will be spending those funds I saved up for acting classes on Dutch classes now. I sat there for a bit at the Taalcetrum, on a bench, and read the Murakami birthday anthology, I finished an entire story today:
Also, it rained today (when I went off to the office in the morning and all day). Cleansing for a new life (if I manage to stay alive).
I’ve been think all day about the value of life, death, and how the loss of some lives (like mine) would just be a millisecond teeny-tiny blip. Like, bleep, no impact, and life would just go on… And nobody would remember because the memory of that person would just be deleted from the world. It’s a strangely comforting thought… How insignificant I am. It brings me peace. Away from The Mean Reds. *Clutches IKEA Bear + Mr. Monkey*
Some people get so thirsty during awards season, they end up drinking poison in the process.
British people. I just don’t get it with you British people. What do you expect me to think about your people now? In 2013, I met a British theatre director who had white man’s burden. In 2014, I saw “My Week With Marilyn”. In 2015, British actors mock me. By 2016, I hope everyone will forget I ever existed. I’m going to make an imaginary friend out of the legit dorky dork from that film… That character was such a comforting presence, so earnest…
Tuesday, January 13, 2015: What Defines Whatever We Have
It’s just occurred to me that whatever type of ‘relationship’ we have for ourselves here, whatever this is, is defined by the inequality of it. Our career gap and your lack of consideration for it, is one thing. But then there’s the discrepancy between how you treat me versus how I’ve treated you (not that I keep an MS Excel spreadsheet to keep score or anything). And I’m inexperienced—or should I say ‘underdeveloped’, considering my age—in the relationships department, but I know that’s not good.
I’m not asking you to applaud me. Of course not! I can’t even applaud myself for that crap. But knowing my insecurities, you could’ve been a little more considerate. You’re as heartless as a child on a playground—you’re far too young for me. Even as just a friend, even as a role-model stranger. Grow the fuck up.
You started early, I’ve never sides for over 24 hours. FFS, you’re a white man and I’m a woman of colour. When you destroyed that part of myself I developed for so long, you made it too late for me to start over: Because in this business, men are like wine and women are raisins. I’m so angry with you, I can’t think of how long it’ll take for me to restore my confidence. I’m too scared to even start calculating because I’m scared that the reality of things will just have me feeling really disturbed and I’ll throw myself off the balcony or slit my wrists. It’s too fucking late. And it makes me want to be nothing but dead.
I seriously need to draft that suicide note. You know, the one where I actually name you? The one where I tell everyone what you did? But then I won’t care if even more people see it, because I’ll be dead by then. See how that works so brilliantly? Then I’d be a posthumous famewhore.
That’s not even ‘entitlement’ on my part.
I never even asked for support. I was content with just not being hurt.
It’s not like I’m asking for a fucking blood diamond (can you imagine how my aunt who worked in Sierra Leone would react to me finding a man who gives blood diamonds? LOL. She’d be so proud, I’m sure). There’s not even reciprocity for the amount of courtesy I afforded you. Sure, I pretended to be a Shakespeare purist to call you names (to be fair, you made fun of my Aspie clunkiness). But I never spoke of what I sensed were your true insecurities with anyone. And considering I have so many reasons to lack respect for you now, I’ve been extraordinarily civil.
See, the problem with you is that you don’t even treat me with the basic level of respect one would expect of another human being. Strangers on a bus had more consideration than you. Yesterday, I teared up on the bus on my way to work. I find it incredibly kind how when I started tearing up, people at the bus had the decency and respect to not stare. They didn’t bring attention to my hurt like you brought attention to my humiliating first role. Your value in my life has been reduced to less than that of a stranger on my morning commute. That’s just how much you’re worth to me right now.
And not everything is about you. I didn’t get into acting so I could be around you. The only reason I even cared to learn your name was because you worked a certain profession (and you’re so overexposed, it’s not like I purposely sought you out). And the only reason why I followed you around was being I thought I needed a role-model. And then I had the misfortune of being stupid enough to get attached, and clung on to you like a needy little orphan, like my dear life depended on it. I may have been the one who latched onto you first, but you leeched the life out of me. I only latched onto you because I was desperate for emotional support, it had nothing to do with whether you’re a good or bad person. You’re a bad judgement on my part—that I’ll admit, just like my accepting that first role when I was vulnerable. Both are the same. Both of those decisions were bad. And both of you destroyed me.
I haven’t been to a film theatre since “Only Lovers Left Alive” because you scared me so much last time. What was that about? Did you even believe in that film’s message? If it’s taking me this long to recoup from my film theatre issues, how long will it take for me to fully recover until I can act again?
I’ve reached a point where I actually hope I don’t recover.
I’m so, so tired, Lemon…
It’s too much.
I wish I never got to know who you are at all if it meant I could still act. I’d rather be an actress and not know you at all. I regret even the knowledge of your existence. You are no longer welcome in my life. Because every time I see your face, all I feel is shame. You’re not special to me. The only reason you have such a prominent role in my ‘career’ is because you fucking ruined it. Fuck you.
It’s not an “honour” to be destroyed by you. If anything, it just makes it worse because you knew my limitations and went on with it anyway just to amuse yourself, you didn’t think I deserved to be treated with respect. You have everything, and depriving yourself from one source of amusement wouldn’t have ruined your life the way you’ve shattered mine.
I hope you and your castmates lose everything you have.
I truly hope you lose everything you have and love.
No matter what angle you try to excuse your actions, your wrongdoings are still wrong and will always be wrong. You’ve always just been another human being to me, just that you worked a profession I was working towards. Now I just want my old self back.
I don’t even give a flying fuck about your wellbeing anymore. Now I’m just mad that I can’t act anymore. You heard me: I loved acting more than I ever liked you. And I mean that. My life is about me now, just like the way your life has always been about you. I can’t save you and your empty eyes from drowning now, Eric. I traded-in my fins for legs—whereas you’ve always had legs, but now I’ve lost the ability to swim and I’ve drowned deeper than you. How the fuck do you expect me to save you from drowning when I’ve drowned even deeper than you have? Your drunken antics do nothing to me. Boohoo, don’t play Ophelia with me, Piglet. You’re still Piglet. Or as Oxbridge scholars put it, “you’re an arsehole of epic proportions.” So get your arse to a nunnery (and you know well which kind I’m referring to).
Oh, how I used to give a shit about you.
The amount of shit given was boundless.
Remember how I didn’t want you to win anything this year as soon as I sensed how humiliating this would end for you? I held that opinion before it became a popular opinion amongst those who actually care about you. I thought that back when the skeptics were still going, “oh, I hope he at least gets something out of this unfortunate situation.” You know what I wrote the first time I saw those blogs in early December 2014? On December 8, I posted this:
I know I really shouldn’t be laughing because boy looks miserable. And they say pretty humiliating things about him and I hope he doesn’t win anything this year even if I hate his guts because then every time he looks at the damn thing, it’ll just remind him of one of the most humiliating and degrading moments of his life. I’m embarrassed. Like I have second-hand embarrassment from the whole situation. If he wants to win something, maybe win some other year where he wins fair and square. But not like this (whatever, I still think acting awards are illogical as hell). But if you insist on collecting the silly things, at least acquire them honestly.
I even said something nice about you cleverly showing integrity in resisting Lucifer. I had faith in you and that your work could speak for itself. You don’t even need all this bullshit.
Because I didn’t want you to have a souvenir that would remind you of this disgrace of a situation years from now. So you could be ‘proud’ of it. Not something that would make you cringe every time you accidentally laid your eyes on. I so wanted this whole sham to fail so that you wouldn’t have to squirm every time you’re introduced as X-nominee or Y-winner because I just knew this could only get worse—which it did because people went rogue and things went out-of-control, didn’t it? It’d be lifelong torment—no matter how hard you try to deny it, lying to yourself doesn’t make something a truth. And I didn’t want that for you.
But what do you do? You inflicted on me the very pain and humiliation I didn’t want you to endure. Firsthand.
And I’m sure people attributed that to my hatred toward all things acting awards for being illogical—as opposed to the combination of reason and compassion that it was. But that wasn’t me being stoic. I truly wanted that for you out of compassion—on top of tolerating your endless stupidity that manifested in the form of your awards-obsession. I fucking tolerated crap that made no logical sense—and if that wasn’t love, I don’t know what the fuck that was. I used to fucking shower you with love.
But now I don’t know you anymore, I don’t know if winning anything will still make you happy regardless, because you’re just that shameless and that thirsty, or just haunt you for life. The only thing I know for sure is that what I want for you now is for you to suffer. I want it to be excruciating for you. Win or lose, nominated or not, I just hope you’re fucking miserable.
All I did was wish you nice things and you destroyed me.
All you do is take. I never even asked you to give me anything.
You could never play King Edward VIII. Because you can’t get into the mindset of someone who sacrifices for love. You only sacrifice love.
You may be gifted in mimicry, but you’re so lacking at empathy and sensitivity.
I think the main reason why the Endgame changed in my dreams is because I perceive you to be an entirely different person now. I see photos of you and it’s like my face recognition software’s gone haywire… And you now register as foreign. What you did has now altered that algorithm even at a subconscious level. Hence the dream.
I can’t stop crying, I just can’t. And the more I cry the less I’m convinced that it’s having “the gift of vulnerability”, as my teacher put it, and the more I actually believe I’m just being a “glorified, romanticised crybaby”. Because I can’t stop. Every time I think I’m having a good day where I don’t cry, something always comes along and triggers it. There’s always something.
I can’t fucking act anymore.
Fuck you so much.
You repel me.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015: You All Win An Award For The Audacity To LOL
When I think of all the effort, time, energy, and funds I put into pursuing acting, I just feel so stupid now.
The idea of me going out of my way, leaving the house, to audition, to attend acting workshops, to get my hair fixed for the job… I’m horrified I even bothered now.
What was I thinking? Who was I kidding? Were my agents sending me to auditions only to humour me? Were people really laughing and pitying me behind my back? Do people burst into giggle fits the moment I step out of the audition room? All those times casting directors labelled me a “character actor”, and knowing that was code for ‘unattractive actor’, I sucked it up and went on with auditioning like I actually had a chance… Am I deluded?
And I think, “What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here?”
Or are you and your castmates really my only true friends? Because you guys at least had the audacity to laugh at me in my face, in a very public manner, instead of behind my back? You all deserve to win all the awards in the world for that, don’t you now?
What is this?
I don’t know what to think anymore.
I just want to die, Lemon.
Thursday, January 15, 2015: Nobody Knows Who To Blame
Peppy likes to count stuff. Today marks crying for 11 days straight since January 5, 2015. Hm. *Snuggles Nameless IKEA Teddy Bear and Sir Monkey*
On Saturday, I asked my old friends on my academic Path and Twitter accounts:
Who should I be more angry at?
British-Hollywood actors who mocked an Indonesian production?
Or Indonesian industry for the crappy quality?
Then I x-posted that on Facebook.
Nobody knew the answer.
After responding to one friend, “I don’t know what they’re trying to achieve”, another friend suggested you guys were trying to amuse yourselves. It makes logical sense, but it makes what you did overkill, if it was just to amuse yourself. Also, there was no need for it: I’m a different gender—and awards are categorised by gender, different body type, I play in an age group below you, we’re different races… Not to mention untrained. I’m not a professional threat. We’d never be competing for the same roles. Ever. It really wouldn’t hurt for you to be a little nicer to me.
I like parody and satire too, but I usually choose my targets with care: Either they’ve hurt or offended me first, or they’re bigger, stronger, and more powerful than me. Because unlike you, I’m not a bully.
I seriously have to wonder how many times and how often do you destroy other actors like this. You’ve beaten me senseless.
Speaking of school, every time I consider whether or not to take a role, I think of what certain professors I respected would think of it, not necessarily me seeking approval or validation, but I just always wonder. Would they cringe and think, “let’s disown her from the alumni association”? I worry about things like that, because I don’t come from a world of drama schools where people understand—wait, what am I saying? You came from a world of drama schools and you didn’t (or refused) to understand why my first role was so shitty. I just don’t get how you’d ever think it was okay for you to do that. Never mind.
Some days, I’m so sad I can barely get out of bed. But then the fact that I can’t makes me feel more and more like a slacker. And I just drown deeper and deeper into it, it’s like… Just when I thought I’d be close to reaching the seabed, it just keeps getting lower and lower just to accommodate me for who I am. I’ve accomplished nothing. I even wrote the wrong Master’s thesis and now it’s too late to fix that by doing a Ph.D. on cyberwarfare because someone else beat me to it (man, was I thrilled when I found out). I really wanted to achieve something and make something out of my life, Lemon. I really did. I didn’t want to be like everyone else and marry out of societal pressure, breed children for a safety net, and flutter away to my death. Some people are content with it—and good for them for being low-maintenance, bless their hearts—because I’m just not built that way… And wish I was like that. It’s like that part on “Franny and Zooey” where they talk about making a splash? I thought you and your often shameless pursuit of ‘success’, of all people, would understand that. But I was wrong: You only understand ambition when it’s your own.
It takes a lot of courage for people like you and me to be nobodies, Lemon. And the fact that you’re famous doesn’t make you powerful, it just proves that you’re weak.
Why, forgive me for being confused. For I live in a world where the media is forgiving of those who lie in their CV, while those who don’t lie about the contents of their CV are ridiculed for their best, honest efforts.
The only thought that keeps me sane and undisturbed is the idea of my lack of significance. Because unlike you, I don’t have a support system.
Yesterday, the beautiful mind with Truman Syndrome acted up. Now I think someone is planting triggers. So I commit suicide and never tell.
I’ve been thinking. If you and your band of imitators ever tried to apologise, I think it would just make matters worse for me as it would rub it in. It’s like rubbing salt in a wound, and then squeezing lime drops on it after. It would just fucking mortify me even more. Reminded. And have the image of you doing that thing over and over.
The image of you saying what you’re sorry for, repeated.
Over and over and over.
No, don’t ever apologise. Not that I think you guys care, anyway.
I’ve always been one to be demanding of apologies.
But this time I actually don’t want it.
Just get the fuck out of my sight.
I literally just spent all day trying to think of any time in my life where I’ve been more sad than this, and I genuinely can’t remember anything. I feel terrible and I’m frozen.
I’m starting to think up these conspiracy theories about you possibly being Illuminati and that you and your castmates killing another actor’s spirit is like some sort of sacrificial ritual to get your arses nominated for every single award this year. So, you’ve found yourself a virgin—who admittedly only wants to do five roles in her lifetime to it tick something off her bucket list and couldn’t give a rodent’s behind about the craft—singled me out, and humiliated me into debilitating shame in an mimicry ritual aimed at stealing my soul. But why single me out and make me the film’s sacrificial virgin? Why couldn’t you just have nekkid orgies like on “Eyes Wide Shut”?
I feel dead inside.
Did you sell my soul to the Devil?
Because I can’t feel a damn thing, and that’s scary as hell.
It would have been so much kinder if you had just slaughtered me dead instead of transforming me into a zombie.
Friday, January 16, 2015: Human Sacrifice
09:17 – On a TransJakarta bus on my way to work
So… Your virgin sacrifice paid off, huh?
When will you start to understand that we’re just not the same and I’m not like you? You don’t get to make those kinds of metaphors, Lemon. It’s not the same as my stats and my World Cup epiphany on penalty shootouts because, you see, I don’t do that doping thing you do. You’re near an overdose with your doping too. But boy would I like to shoot your lame ball down.
I see what you did there: You drew a little loophole to invite your parents (do that, they deserve it more than anyone). They’ve been nothing but good to you, and they wouldn’t purposely humiliate you in front of your colleagues. Unlike some people. It’s the only decent thing you’ve done as of late, that loophole (don’t take this for me believing in the validity of awards, either… I can only tolerate Tim Gray and your parents). Don’t take your toolbox (I don’t see any sound reasoning behind it as there should be nothing to fix by then, so don’t make my brain hurt any further). Be a good boy. Do the right thing.
It won’t make me forgive you for fucking destroying me—because I never fucking will, but it’ll make me feel better because everyone is stupid except the three. No, really, do it for them. Don’t be an idiot.
Have I ever mentioned that I didn’t even invite my parents to both undergrad and grad school graduations since I didn’t think they’d be proud of me? Yeah. I just never told them the graduation dates, ceremony time, and just went on without them like it was any other day. All the other parents looked like they felt sorry for me, but I was at peace. I wasn’t raised on shitty films and books, Lemon. I hope my parents never have to see my first role, they’d be mortified. It’s such a disgrace. I wish I could make it magically go away permanently.
You know how the NS sneltrein is always oh-so-punctual? Well every now and then, the train’s late. And when NS trains are late, it’s always because someone committed suicide on the tracks. This silent film we live in just got silly. Except it’s not funny. Thanks for tying this undistressed damsel onto the tracks and putting her in distress.
I’m not like you, so stop trying to make “fetch” happen.
On paper, we seem to have the cute opposites attract thing going on (we’ve even got the “poster children for the awards Madonna/awards whore complex” nailed). But in reality, this isn’t working out because the fact that you’re an utter preternatural jackass (and a bullshittery prodigy) just keeps getting in the way. Now fuck off. We’re not the same. And I’ll never warm up to acting awards, because they’re illogical and stupid and not worth it. The very concept of ‘campaigning’ for subjective art, I literally feel my brain cells exploding and withering away… It just doesn’t add up. At least in politics the power won is used to shape policy for the greater good, all of this is for your personal gain.
I’m glad I finally got to use the word “preternatural” in a sentence. I just learned it when it was Variety’s fad word. I’ve been dying to use it for ages.
No matter what people say about adorableness, we could never coexist. It’s not so much that we’re incompatible. The things you do that are perfectly natural for you hurt me by default because of who I am. I’m even starting to think the only way for you be happy is if I suffer in the process; and when I don’t suffer, you suffer as a result. I mean look us now: You got what you wanted all along, life is so perfect for you… And look at where I am by contrast.
We need to cut each other loose so we can both be equally happy.
We cannot coexist without inequality.
These diary entries are starting to sound like letters. But there are no rules for diarists, so I can do what I want. I’m going nuts. And it’s messed-up because sometimes I’ll be talking to a coworker or something and my voice just feels floaty and airy and it sounds like I’m hearing myself as a person standing like a meter away.
Lemon, I’m scared for you. If the beautiful mind with Truman Syndrome was right, I think someone… IDK who, her? Someone in her camp? Lucifer’s team? Someone planted an entire piece targeted at me (this happened on Wednesday the 14th, at brunch, Jakarta time). They compiled a bunch of my suicide triggers (words) structured in a specific manner and submitted it to one of the blogs. If I’m not just being paranoid-schizophrenic, someone tried to kill me. Sure, they did it the way I described Mycroft killing people by way of tugging strings from a distance in Chapter 3. But still. I can’t tell what their motives were, IDK whether they were trying to get me commit suicide to silence me, or if they noticed my promise to name you in my suicide note and saw that as a way to get even or punish you. Either way, you’re dealing with someone who has no qualms about taking a human life to get what they want. What kind of people are you getting mixed-up with, Lemon? What have you gotten yourself into?
20:58 – In room after a shower
I’m starting to think it’s not meant to be:
I wanted to get better. But it feels like everyone’s so determined to make it so much harder to heal. It’s almost like they don’t want me to. Like they’re saying “we don’t want you here”. I wanted to punch myself in the face Fight Club-style so my face would hurt instead my heart (or whatever hurts when my chest feels stuffy and pully). Making my body hurt always seems to help. It’s just so painful to just be reminded, no matter how awful their first on-screen roles were, it couldn’t have been as bad as mine. They have unions/guilds to ensure people don’t make fools of themselves.
It feels so punishing. I still don’t know what I did to deserve all this.
My mental health has gone absurd, I think.
It kind of oddly ‘hurts’ when you can’t feel shit. It’s really uncomfortable.
Make it stop.
Saturday, January 17, 2015: Convinced of An Impossible Coexistence
Every day, I think I’ll have a good day—and by that I mean a day where I don’t cry, but then something happens and I do. Day 13 of crying since January 5. Day 101 of living here temporarily. I’m starting to like it here.
Remember: We could never coexist. Because for us to coexist, one of us has to keep losing. You’re already winning—you always have, and I don’t like losing. Someone submitted this song on one of the blogs. It feels like it does seem that things get much better, every time you are not around.
If I ever recover from this—which I highly doubt, can you kindly stay the fuck away from me? Please? It’s the least you can do after you’ve destroyed me. I don’t want your name ever attached to mine, and I really don’t need that kind of attention in my life.
Last updated: January 17, 2015