PART ONE

Pain is not a fault, it’s just a different way of expressing. Pain is a feeling. I’ve been surrounded by pain since I was little, and because I’ve always been passively in pain, besides waiting patiently for the wounds to heal, there was no other way to kill time. Resting quietly helps you recover faster, but I’ve never been someone who rests quietly.

I’m in pain. Every moment, every second, I’m in pain. My memory is excellent—I remember almost everything—but in order to heal, I’ve had to forget many things. But I don’t want to forget anymore. Even if it hurts so much I want to die, I won’t die. I’d rather remember. Even if it’s pain, it’s better than forgetting. I need to remember. This is my wound. Come see. I’ll show you. Do you want to see?

I don’t know what extreme awareness feels like. Is it really like Siddhartha Gautama attaining enlightenment under the bodhi tree, and from then on becoming free from the suffering of birth, aging, sickness, and death? Free from reincarnation, no longer having to repeat lifetime after lifetime, being born and dying, missing and redoing? This life is so short—many things you only get to do once. Some things, once missed, are gone for decades. It feels like everything is too heavy, like it’s impossible to make any decision lightly.

But if you want to create life, whether it’s your own life or giving birth to something that continues this meaningless life of yours into some unknown future, your species—will the future be better? Probably not. So why continue? I don’t know either.

You have to move forward. You have to make choices. You can’t just keep spinning in place. Even if you try to stay still, other people will push you forward, society will push you forward. So let’s see who pushes who harder. I don’t believe in fate. I want to defy fate. You don’t get to decide who I am. I know we’re all living in a black hole (such stable physical laws are way too suspicious—especially after reading The Three-Body Problem, I seriously suspect we’re actually aliens). This must be The Truman Show. I’m watching you. You’re watching me. But now I know you’re watching me. So? What are you going to do? Do you have a way out? I bet you don’t. So what can I do?

I’m 32 now. There’s nothing I still want to do for myself. So what else can I do? What’s still worth doing? What can still be done? What isn’t just repetition, back and forth, reunion after separation, brief joy followed by long-term pain? I want you to see this kind of pain. If it’s just pain for pain’s sake, then it all feels even more meaningless. Maybe being seen will help. Maybe not being seen means it’ll all disappear. Am I not also part of the observer? Doesn’t the observer affect the state of the observed? Come observe me. I want to live.

(depression)

Every time I say I’m a bit “depressed,” this is what I mean. And sometimes, I get triggered for no reason—like when I heard the song Lilian. I didn’t understand the lyrics at all at first, so I went and looked them up, and only after reading them did I realize—it’s about a girl with schizophrenia, in a psychiatric hospital. I’ve been to a psychiatric hospital too. I saw so much sadness in there. I didn’t know how to make sense of it, how to process it. And then I understood—I’m part of that sadness too. It’s not normal sadness. It’s extreme, prolonged, deep sadness.

The lyrics of Lilian—based on her description, the girl seems to have Dissociative Identity Disorder (refer to DSM-5 if you want to look it up). These multiple personalities are different selves that grew out of her childhood as a way to protect herself. Some are angry, some are calm, some are cynical, some are ignorant—they each have their own roles. But in order to heal, those personalities have to leave her. She misses them deeply, until one day she grows a new “her.” The lyrics describe her watching that personality leave, and how reluctant she is to let go. It’s heartbreaking. Truly heartbreaking. It’s like Toy Story. What’s lost isn’t a toy—it’s a version of yourself.

My memory is too good. I can’t fool myself into thinking the past was better than the present. I can’t tell myself I’m doing well—because I’m not. But I’ve passed the age where I thought someone might come save me. So I hold on. Let’s see who breaks first.

I think I’ve always been too extreme, too all-out, too irreverent, too intense—but that’s because I know how uncertain the future is. Only Moira and I know.

PART TWO

Pain is not a fault, it’s just a different way of expressing. Where there is joy, there will be pain. It’s like saying, if you’re happy, your pain might be on its way. I used to think like that too, like every time it’s a roller coaster—if you go up, you’ll come crashing down, and if there’s a moment of happiness, it means that a moment of sorrow is coming right after. Although happiness always seems so short, and sadness feels so long. I don’t know why, it’s like life is a scam—sadness is the main course, and joy is just a garnish.

But pain is not a fault, it’s just a different way of expressing. Where there is good, there is bad. It’s just that other people’s emotions are stable, they can absorb some fluctuations, they are resilient, whereas I never had the chance to grow emotional resilience, I only know how to digest atomic bombs, how to explode, and then piece myself back together. I really have no energy, I really have no strength.

Pain is not a fault, if life is only pain, does that mean it has no meaning? If I write it down, will it gain meaning? If you are in pain, does it make you feel seen? Do I feel seen? Writing is not desire, not impulse, it’s necessity. If I don’t write, I might die. If I don’t write, I really might die.

PART THREE

Pain is not a fault. It is a necessity. Without pain, you wouldn’t know what is unhealthy, what is uncomfortable, what is hurting you—at least that’s what we learned in biology class. Pain is a guide to survival. When you feel pain, you avoid it—at least that’s what biology taught us. But the things that cause me pain have already expanded to include the entire world. I don’t want to destroy the world. I just want to destroy myself. If I want to survive, I must learn to coexist with pain. Pain will always be there. Accept it.

It will be in every hidden corner, in places you don’t even know—because you’ve already crawled your way out. The reason you crawled out was to not feel pain anymore, but you still feel pain. You find that you can’t lie to yourself. You know they exist. They’ve always existed. It’s just that now you no longer have access to them. You want to keep your promise. You want to do something.

PART FOUR

Some things hurt a little. Some things hurt a lot. You’re wondering what’s the most appropriate way to show it; then it occurs to you—once it’s been edited, refined, and repackaged, is it still pain? Pain doesn’t follow time, doesn’t care about your will, doesn’t give you a choice. It comes when it wants. It leaves when it wants. It forces you to leave immediately, to escape instantly. You can’t be seen like this. Others can’t catch it—this would be too much of a shock. But I want to be seen, completely. Pain is a part of me—and not a small part. Even though I’m actively in treatment now, hoping it’ll slowly fade. Even if the pain eventually leaves, what’s left all over me are the marks it gave.