So if anyone ever tell you "Ah, orangnya aslinya nggak sebaik apa yang dia tulis di media sosial" about me, then probably they are right. When I write 'kind things' on social media, most likely because I want to highlight such thoughts inside me. I want myself to be kinder. I've been living as myself for more than twenty years to understand that I have ugly thoughts popping out in my head here and there, and I'm trying hard not to keep them; to push them away. I know too well that plenty of times, I'm struggling with how to 'detox myself' because I don't think I can contain them. I have to get them out somewhere. And there are also times when I cannot kill those ugly thoughts alone, even if I know they are ugly and evil. When I decide to tell people that "You know, I have these thoughts and I know they are awful, please help me by validating how wrong they are", I realize they might draw a conclusion that says, "Eh whoa this person is actually toxic and she's showing her true self" instead. Not as a detox process which happens because I don't want those toxins inside of me. It is something I have to learn to accept that I cannot make people conclude things the only way I hope them to.

I know how my ugly thoughts make me assume the worst from everyone and it's cruel, it's unfair. Sometimes I want myself to die and sometimes I want another person to get the hell out of this world, when in fact, death wish is never okay. Sometimes I hate someone for no reason. Sometimes I think how nice it'd be if everyone else becomes miserable. I had those thoughts inside my head. And I'm still figuring things out, finding out how to deal with them better.

I'm not the most sympathetic person. I'm incapable of handling many situations regarding other people's emotions. I am too afraid to say things other than the standard-and-obligatory "I'm sorry" because I don't know to face these situations. I couldn't say things like, "I feel your pain" because I don't. I don't understand it. I'm not the one feeling and experiencing it. I feel so distant to it and realizing that I feel nothing confuses me. It freaks me out. Therefore, plenty of times, I opted to run. I did not address their emotions. And at some other times, I resorted to do something that at the end of the day get perceived as ignorance. Or even worse, hurt others.

"Come on, let's go home," you say as we both see a city bus approaching, and I can't help but smile a little. Home. What you mean by 'home' is your small, rented room, which space only enough to accommodate a twin-sized bed, a cupboard for clothes, and a small drawer. A small place I've been visiting from time to time. A small place where we need not to worry about anything. A safe place for us. A sanctuary for two. 

You climb up first just like always. You never wait. You never look back. You know I will always be right behind you, with your back as my compass. It always feels as though you walk alone, without me as a companion, if only your hand doesn't reach behind and try to find mine. A hand that I always take without fail, because no matter how tight we hold to each other, no matter how strongly our fingers intertwine, the second we bump into our friends and acquaintances, this connection will break. And I don't even know whose hand let go first; it ends in a blink of an eye. And if they call you, or me, then one of us will walk away, talking to them casually. Pretending we are going alone. We will exit the bus at the same stop, separately, and my hand will take yours again after the bus speeds off.

Nobody should know about us. You never tell your friends about me, let alone your family. My name never comes up when your parents are asking whether there is someone in your life you can introduce to them. And so does yours. But it's fine this way. I understand. You understand. It's them, who will never understand. And that's why we will never tell. Even God says we both will be going down to hell.

In silence, our fingers lace together. 

Creating a small prison, locking up our story so nobody can see.

z. d. imama

At night. Lying under my blanket in a darkened room. Accompanied by distant sounds of stray cats mewling as they look for leftovers in the garbage. I think about many ways to die. Maybe I'm getting hit by a city bus. Falling from high places. Drowning in a shallow pool like a fool. Cutting the skin a little bit too deep or at the wrong place. Going deep into slumber and never return.

And I start thinking about the people. The livings. Noticing how only a few names appear. Noting how, probably, it is only a handful of people who will get notified when I'm truly gone. That guy I'm having a big crush on probably will have no idea what's happening; he doesn't even know that I'm re-reading our mundane, casual texts like it's worth any writing award. The friends I made through internet connections, at best, will wonder for a moment why my account is not updating, or why it is deactivated several weeks too long. The books, the drama series and movies I collected throughout the years will stay untouched, most likely getting thrown out as the days go by because my parent don't know what to do with them.

Taking a deep breath, eyes staring into the dark, I keep asking myself. Where will it be, then? Here, alone, inside my room, that no one but me has the key? And my body will be found at much later time when the smell has become a nuisance. Or will it be in a strange place I have never visited before? Or will my lifeless body lies amongst the muttering crowd, hands can be seen everywhere carrying phones to take pictures? I wonder if I will be able to see myself on that particular day.

I can hear my own heartbeat in the silence.
I feel the air goes into my lungs, then out from both nostrils.
I can sense the blood tirelessly rushing throughout my still body.

And tonight, just like countless nights in the past, I sleep crying.

You fall in love.

z. d. imama

The kind of life I've seen in movies. The kind of life I've read in novels. The kind of life I'm seeing when I scroll my own Twitter feed, posted by people looking back through their past experiences. The kind of life I hear people speak of. The kind of life I always feel envious about. The kind of life that's not mine. The kind of life they are having. Everyone else's. The kind of life that's happier. More fun. Normal. 

Or at least, it seems to me like what a normal life should be.

I wanted to be a kid with plenty of playmates. The cheerful kid whom every other kids like to interact with, because I look exactly the same in their eyes. I did not wish to be a kid spending almost all of her time inside a library, or near bookshelves, nose deep behind every book and magazine I could lay my hands onto. I did not wish to be a kid whose body is bigger than literally almost everyone else at kindergarten, or at school, that other kids loved to avoid me because they were afraid of my big size, or laughed at and called me with unpleasant names because of my size. I am okay with not being privileged enough to learn things I want―ballet, musical instruments, and whatnots―but at least I wanted to have playmates. And I never wished for myself to get bullied.

I wanted to a teenager just like any other ones. I wanted to have some people whose faces I could stick on my bedroom wall, decorated with colorful pens saying "BFF" or other flowery words. When I finally got to watch the widely popular Ada Apa dengan Cinta? years later after its released date, I could never relate to the "Geng Cinta" because I never knew a friendship like that. Back then, I was introduced way too soon to a friendship where everyone is quietly trying to tear down the other, badmouthing anyone who's not present. And it was damn hell exhausting. I wanted my peers. A healthy circle of friends. Something that so many people love to brag about: finding their closest companions in their school days... I wanted that.

I wanted to be like other girls, back then in my school days. And college days. Maybe I wanted to be like the boys, too. They had fun. They found love, even the ones which didn't last very long. They confessed or got confessed to. They got their feelings reciprocated. I  must admit, I was very envious about that. I still am. I was always a little bit too serious. A little bit too uptight. A little bit too driven as a student. A little bit too fat. A little bit too plain. A little bit less pretty. I did not want a string of rejection after rejection, but that was all I got. I can't brag, or share silly stories about my ex-boyfriends like other people because I never had one. I was that person nobody took a second glance at. Maybe they didn't even see me.

I have always wanted a normal life.

But I've never got anything else other than the one I'm living, so is this what's "normal" for me?

Because I have. Plenty of times. That question pops inside my head at random times. I think about it before I sleep, with both eyes closed inside my darkened room. I think about it as I stand under the shower, letting hot water hits the top of my head and glides along my shoulders, down my back, then fall onto the floor. I think about it inside the crowded train and city bus. Have I done something good for other people? For other living beings? Have I, at least, make someone else feeling glad we met? And those thoughts will trail towards bigger question: does my life have any meaning?

I've met many kind people for the past years, and you are one of them. You’re so kind—don’t deny it because it’s a truth. My version of truth, at least. But what if I’m just relying on your kindness? What if I only use them, and you, all this time for my only benefit? That I think anyone is fine as long as they’re nice to me? That I’ve been trying desperately to fill this hole inside my chest which often throbs painfully by taking advantages of your kind heart? What if I’m no more than a manipulative, cruel, horrible person? Did you ever think of it? What if I don’t deserve anyone’s kindness?

My thumb moved slowly. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Oh, that dude updated his blog. Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Hey, that person posted new status. I see. Well, there's that again. It's not only once or twice did I see someone said―or wrote―on the internet: "I love you even if I don't know you". I wonder how do we supposed to read that? That sentence does look pretty, I admit, at least pretty enough to the point where somebody could just copy and paste it on Hallmark's cards. And oh I bet that feels good for the speaker's side, too. But I never stop questioning the sincerity behind such lines. 

"How can?"

Some people may feel that they are not loved by anyone―including themselves―for some reasons. Some people may only be able to love other people―their friends, their acquaintances, their family, but not themselves. It's a rather complicated feeling. And it's damn hell frustrating. Especially when everyone around you keep saying, "Love yourself just the way you are" while you don't even know which part of you are good enough to be liked. So you hate yourself even more. Because you know you've failed this 'simple' thing. You feel unloved and useless. And suddenly somebody told you (or you read it as a post on the internet), "I love you even though I don't know you". Aww...

That's so beautiful.
And what a totally perfect bullshit to say.



I do believe we can only like (and love) people we know. The meetings may come in different ways: there are people we know from actual meetups, there are those whom we know from TV series, variety shows, movies, social media platforms, music releases, and other things. Well, I think it's even safe to say that it's possible for us to love fictional characters we find in various works. We come to know them, or at least we think we know something about them. And that's why we like them. That's why we  are able to love them. Sure it doesn't necessarily mean we like or love everyone we know, but for the ones we end up favoring, we definitely feel familiarity to some extent.

That is why someone can fall in love with people who don't even know they exist―it's the gap, the disparity in knowledge and sense of familiarity between both parties. Like, you know, famous people may feel thankful towards and care about their fans who made them popular in general, but as an individual being, our life do not really affect theirs. It's possible for us to love people who do not know about us at all, but to love someone we don't know feels... so far-fetched. 

z. d. imama

I said this morning, in front of the mirror, as blood dripped down my right palm really slowly because I was stupid enough to grab the cutter by its blade and injured my own hand. I felt the sharp, piercing pain from the cut, and yet I breathed out in relief. For the last few days my head has been a very busy place and it's not exactly in a good way. Doing foolish thing like getting myself cut was actually helping because at least the noise inside my head died down, overshadowed by the distracting pain across my palm.

Barangkali jika hidup saya adalah sebuah kisah dalam novel pop, maka saya bukan merupakan seorang tokoh utama yang bagus. Editor-editor mungkin akan membenci saya yang kerap menatap keluar jendela bus (terutama TransJakarta karena nyaman, sejuk, dan bebas pengamen fakir upaya yang kerap ditemukan pada Kopaja dan Metromini) dan melamun. Mempertanyakan apa ada yang bisa diharapkan dari masa depan. Sejatinya saya ini, setitik bakteri di semesta, apa cuma hidup sebagai perwujudan ambisi orang tua untuk berketurunan dan mati sekian tahun kemudian. Bertanya-bertanya sebenarnya hidup enaknya dipakai ngapain. Apalagi kalau miskin. Social script level medioker yang diikuti sebagian besar masyarakat seperti menikah dan beranak-pinak semata-mata berdasar argumen "Mumpung masih muda" sama sekali tidak terdengar menarik di telinga. Gimana mau sukses kena pitching propaganda pernikahan kalau aset tidak punya dan orang yang ingin diajak (dan bersedia diajak) hidup bersama pun tidak ada? Marriage is a constitution indeed, but to live with it is not as simple as, "Eh lo belum punya temen ya? Ya udah kerja kelompok bareng gue, mau nggak?"

Oh, tapi untuk urusan kerja kelompok sih saya sering jadi favorit banyak orang. The one who cleans up everyone's mess. The one who says, "Ayo fokus, ini belum dibahas. Itu juga belum didiskusikan" in group discussion every time the topic went somewhere else. Tidak asyik dan terlalu serius, kata orang-orang. Saya tipe manusia yang kadang-kadang dianggap dibutuhkan untuk membantu mendongkrak IPK, namun tidak pernah diundang ke acara pesta.

So there are days when you wonder if people are actually liking you. Sometimes you hear yourself saying, maybe also in front of the mirror as you dress for the day, "Bodo amat orang mau suka sama gue atau nggak! Take it or leave it!" Because you are a bad-ass person. You are strong. You kick ass. You do everything by yourself to this day. You are independent and all. You don't care about what people say. You ditch all those 'toxic humans'. But then when you see some certain faces, like a boomerang flying back to you at full speed, that wondering and unanswered questions come back home. Even worse when you don't really like yourself to begin with.

Kata-kata dan pertanyaan yang biasanya hanya mati di ujung lidah. Tercekat di tenggorokan. You can't ask that. Because you need to be strong. And you are strong. You are a bad-ass person. You kick ass. You can do everything by yourself to this day. You don't need any validation from other human being. You can't be weak, or sounds weak. Menyuarakan pertanyaan-pertanyaan tersebut akan membuat orang-orang berkomentar, "Kenapa sih? Menye banget lo. Jangan baper-baper, lah!" dan itu adalah hal yang tidak diharapkan. 'Menye' is not strong. 'Baper' is bad. So you swallow them all.

Nevertheless, you still wonder whether people like you or not. And you think, "Why should they like you, let alone love, when you don't even like yourself?" Di luar sana orang-orang selalu beramai-ramai mengkampanyekan self-love, mengatakan bahwa seseorang baru bisa dicintai―atau mencintai―orang lain setelah dia mencintai dirinya sendiri. "You should love yourself first," they say. "Don't forget to love yourself," they remind you every day. So you start to question, quietly, of course, letting the sentence just roam inside your head: "Does that mean I don't deserve and I am not supposed to love someone, or to be loved by one, simply because I fail to love myself?"

That makes you angry. 

Angry and disappointed, for your incapability of doing something that everyone think you should do. And, if anything, makes you hate yourself even more for not even able to love yourself. Does that make sense? They say, "To love yourself is easy". They say, "You just need to take care of yourself. Wear clothes you like. Eat good stuffs. Do things that makes you happy."

Guess what?

You can wear your best dress and still don't really care if you're hit by a bus. You can take care of yourself, slathering that face with moisturizer every morning, cleanse that makeup off your face every night, doing fun things with other people, having fun with yourself by doing things you like, and before bedtime you realize that you still hate yourself. Surprise, surprise. Self-love is fucking overrated.

z. d. imama

It's now the third time you say that.

You, always, said the same line over and over and over and over and over like a broken record. And I memorized them all. I remember the first time. We went to a wedding reception of a mutual friend and I couldn't help but feeling acutely envious of the happy couple. I wanted to be happy for them, I swear to god I really did, but the memories of never once having another person reciprocate my feelings for them stroke me like a tidal wave and they suffocated me: I recalled that time when a cute guy I liked in school threw away his backpack out of disgust because I moved it from his desk during cleaning hours; the rejection I got in sophomore year―he said I was too nerdy and far less pretty than his ideals; one day I casually asked a friend to kiss me because I just wanted to know how it feels like.. and 'waiting for the right person' sounds like a distorted delusion.

"It's okay. Don't worry. Someone out there loves you. Someone. Somewhere. Someday."

Why don't you love me?

z. d. imama

That question echoes inside my head, as i'm standing with shaky legs; my entire body is trembling. I hear your voice, mumbling something I cannot understand. I see you take a step forward, then two, and three, closing the small distance between us. But all I want is to cry. My eyes hot with tears.

Your skin touches mine.

I can fell the garments slip off my skin; the attack of chilly air makes me shiver. In cold. In fear. In despair. In self-hatred. Like I want to rip my skin from this body, shredding it into pieces, destroying it into nothingness.

Your breath tickles my ear. And I hold my ground, refusing to fall. Your hands start to wander around. I try not to flinch away. Your arms envelope me. They pull us closer and closer. Tighter. My weak-willed fingers clutch your shoulders. Hard. My nails probably will leave marks. I wish they leave marks. I want you to feel this pain. I want you to bleed, too. I want you to know this sorrow. I close my eyes, hoping it will erase the sight of you. But all I see is your face. Even in the darkness behind my lids.

So I cry.

Cry and beg and sob and plead. I find no way out. You're like a ghost, following me. Haunting me. You give me nowhere to escape. 

z. d. imama

z. d. imama

This letter, maybe, is a complete nonsense to you. It might even result in you hating me. But it’s okay… really. I don’t know why I wrote this thing. And I don’t know why I send it to you. I don’t even know what I’m doing, but I would type this letter although probably it might end up being folded into a paper plane and thrown from my dorm’s rooftop down to the UI woods behind it—or paper boat and sailed away to one of UI’s eight lakes. You don’t have to respond this letter (honestly I think I’ll be less anxious if you do nothing about it), and if this letter disgusts you… just say the word. Just say the word and I won’t bother you again.

I promise.
No offense is taken.

Well. I always wanted to believe that I’m a happy person. And for most of the time, I think I am. However… sometimes I feel so lost. And alone. Family and friends are just like air. I cannot live without them; they keep me alive and breathing. Nonetheless, my hands cannot reach them. I cannot grasp them with my hands. I cannot feel them with these fingers. Although I had frantically held out both arms to them, in the end, no one is able to take it. They are there, around me, but I don’t feel saved. Parents cannot always stay beside me, can they? And friends definitely won’t be able to be with me in every hard times. I texted them but no one replied. I tried to call them but it didn’t get picked up. My letter box is empty, so are my calls record, inbox messages and mention tab. Am I too greedy? Am I being too selfish? Do I wish for too many things?