Old Scars

"I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process." 

~ Vincent Van Gogh 

Yet another sleepless night stumbles upon me.

You would think, with my experience last Wednesday, I would be level headed and reasonable with myself.

It turns out, however, that today (and from no where), I'm feeling the intense hatred and anger that engulfed me for the last couple of months. I want rip things apart, snap with a devilish tongue, to burn anything in my path.What's worse, I remembered the last time I felt so cruel before.

I almost destroyed my baby portrait that hangs from my bedroom wall. I took one look at it and was disgusted with what was in it. I felt like my childhood was taken from me, tainted with a dark past I should have never endured and that still claws at me after all these years, with a secret as to why my family has isolated me for almost my entire life. And there was that portrait, displaying an innocent infant unconscious of the waves of despair and humiliation that would soon come. It was mocking me, screaming of how much of a failure I've been to myself and to others. It boasted the truth about me, and it wouldn't shut up.I wanted to tear it up, and then proceed to every single portrait of me that was standing in this forsaken house.

Midway from smashing the blasted thing to the ground, a memory came to mind:
I remember being pushed off and hitting the rocky ground at an awkward angle, followed by a horrible crunch and snap the reverberated throughout my body and the air. My parents rushed to my side, telling me not to look at my arm, and then seeing my mother's hands covered in blood. My dad lifted me up, tilting my head so I couldn't look at my arm, and we took off in our old, blue pick-up truck and headed to a hospital. My parents were fighting, my brother was crying, and I had no idea what was going on. I felt faint and dizzy, but I don't remember feeling any pain.
The next thing I remember was waking up in the surgery room, where a nurse or a doctor tried to distract me by asking my name and what I liked, and told me that I needed to go back to sleep before placing a mask to my face. Everything after that went black. I was only 4 at the time.
Years later, I found out that I had broken my arm so bad that the bone had popped out from my skin. Doctors told my parents that the best thing to do was to amputate my arm, that surgery wouldn't be much use: my arm would be twisted, and I would never be able to have proper function of it. My parents still urged for the surgery, despite the odds.
Today, I have full function of my arm without any complications.

I looked at the scar that's etched into my skin, let myself hit the wall and fall, hating the person I am now. I didn't care about destroying the portrait anymore. I wanted to fade away, for something to suddenly appear and make me cease to exist. I didn't cry; I was so close to it, but I didn't shed a tear.
I was saved from living a limited life and not others
I didn't die from the blood loss, as others would have.
I start to wonder if my arm was some sort of a bargain, where the chance of having a mentally and emotionally sane life was the price to pay.

I've spent so many years trying to make a better person for those around me, but I've realized that I've broken myself in doing so. I tried to make others happy while making myself miserable. I've wallowed in self-pity yet tried to be righteous for those who needed me. I have forgiven others, and hold a grudge upon myself.
I've tried to pick myself up, only to end up falling once more. And there was only so much I could take; I never noticed how corrupted I was becoming.

I became (or am becoming) all the things I hate: A liar, a sinner, a quitter.

And now, look at where I'm at: perhaps at the lowest point in my life.

I know others have suffered much more difficult lives and that I am probably being selfish, but I don't even feel human anymore--just an empty vessel. I'm waiting for the feeling that came over me last week to come rescue me, but no knight in shining armor seems to stop by..

My hands have been dirty for so long; At this point, I don't know how to clean them anymore.

Presence

All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee to me.
~William Shakespeare, "Sonnet XLIII"

Girly in the Night

This is the third night in a row where I just cant seem to get a good night's sleep. It's 1:00AM, and call me a wuss, but after having nightmares, I'm too scared to close my eyes.

So I might as well entertain you with my girly side:

With my obsession of cosmetics, I was bound to show part of my face sooner or later. Here are two eye make-up looks I've created recently:

Here are the gist of the products I used:

For first two pictures:
MAC Satin Shadow in 'Mylar'

Hot Topic Pigment Palette in 'Blue' (I advise you not to use Hot Topic shadows, though)

NYX Jumbo Eye Pencil in 'Cottage Cheese'

Sephora Atomic Volume Mascara

For bottom two pictures:
Frost! Dream Shadow in 'Chill Out'
MAC Frost Shadow in 'Amber Lights'
MAC Mega Metal Shadow in 'Odalisque'
MAC Satin Shadow in 'Club'
Bellapierre Pigment in 'Tropic'
MAC Fluid Eyeliner in 'Black Track'
NYX Jumbo Eye Pencil in 'Cottage Cheese'
Styli-Style Eyeliner in '378'
Make Up Forever Aqua Eyes in '10'
Avon Glimmersticks Eyeliner in 'Emerald'
Sephora Atomic Volume Mascara

Big Girls Don't Cry

I know I don't explain much of what's going on through said events, but I'd like to share something miraculous that occurred to me recently:

On Wednesday night, I cried for the first time in two months, I believe. It might be less, and even then, two months of not crying doesn't seem much; but seeing how certain events are falling into place, for me, that's an eternity of not spilling a tear.

When I cry, I feel ugly, weak, and pathetic. And being the emotional wreck that I am, crying tends to happen every night, no matter what the circumstance is. Seeing that, I forced myself not to cry anymore, no matter how insane I would become. I had strong urges to just break down and flood the world with salty tears, but I would not allow myself to do so. In a sense, I thought that would make me stronger and toughen me up. My mindset was clear: hold the sobs back, hide any signs of weakness, and I will not be pitied, I will not break. I placed a brick wall around me, and dared not to let anyone in.

As a result, however, I became cold, harsh, bitter. As the crying ceased, another feeling crawled in: hatred. I've had my fair share of hate during the years, but I can't remember the last time I felt like this, when I just resorted to breaking everything around me just to feel good, when I snapped at others and pushed them down to feel satisfaction. I wanted to see everyone hurt, betrayed, empty. Instead of becoming stronger, I became more fragile, and at one point, I felt like I was nothing but a torn rag doll wanting revenge on the world. I let myself fall, and didn't bother to pick myself up.

Wednesday night, however, there was something that washed over me that changed all that; I can't describe the feeling. I was surrounded by others that I have abandoned, and yet they had me in their embrace, they kept me safe from the unknown dangers of the world in that moment. As much as I wanted to pull away, I couldn't.
Then this eccentric emotion swept me away. I guess you would call it happiness, but it felt more than that. It was as if I was being cleansed of every impurity, of all the sins I have committed. I felt a presence in me that was allowing me to let go of all the hate, all the fear. It might have lasted a few seconds, a couple of minutes, or even more than that. But that moment was sacred, and no one could take it from me.

Before I knew it, streams of tears were gliding off my face. I felt unworthy of this, that I didn't deserve to be feeling this massive weight lift off my shoulders. But there I was, continued to be graced in this wave of emotion that made my knees buckle. There was a voice in my head whispering comforting words to me, saying that it was alright to let go, that it was alright to let myself fall in its arms - and so I did.

Perhaps this is too soon to say, but I believe what happened Wednesday night will impact me for the rest of my life. I was given a link to look forward to; and not to look back. I'm not made out of steel, and I don't have to be.







Ennbad

The Mix

Here are some pictures taken July 17, 2011 of The Encounter; a youth group pertaining to Church of the Crossroads.

Toodles.

An Introduction

Greetings, and welcome to my blog.

Some of you may know me by another name, as my username was different before, and some of you may not. For now, just call me Ennbad. 

Here you'll find all sorts of blog posts: ranging from pictures I have taken, to reviews on products, or stories of my life. You'll also find links to other blogs and websites that I'm rather fond of, so if you're interested to take a look, I encourage you to do so.

Goodbye for now, and I hope you find what you see here pleasant.