I refuse to be mediocre.
Yet, I guess I am. Who am I anyway? Who am I to the world? Who am I to the Milky Way? Who am I to the neighboring galaxies? Who am I to the universe?
Who am I to myself?
My belief in myself can be easily overthrown as former President Estrada has been easily impeached. I wonder why I have to battle myself with endless egotistical issues. I feel so vulnerable, so fragile to self-esteem problems that devour me up to crumbling bits.
Self-depreciation: an abstraction that houses within me, an obstruction that cripples me. I tend to shrink at the littlest constructive criticism instead of welcoming it with my head held high; I tend to soar at the slightest hint of appreciation. And that’s the problem with me: I cower from any form of esteem-crushing that I end up gunning myself down in order to avoid others from doing it to me.
I am never beautiful; I can never write good enough; I am a hopeless dreamer; I am a trying hard Xerox machine… And the sentences stretch long enough to tower like a six-footer.
I cannot believe I’ve been like this for so long. A dog which chases its own tail; a snake which swallows itself; a deleted recycle bin… I have become my own black hole. The gravity of my self-depreciation is so immense that it allows nothing to escape from its greedy stomach. Hungry for compliments, thirsty for self-esteem issues to prey on, there it sucks its growth.
A victim of my own self, I have become.
What hope is left for me? Only I can save myself. The black hole is within me, an entity exhibiting such excruciating parasitism. Is there a chance to escape what I have? Is it possible to run away from something I carry within me?
The answer lies within the black hole itself, dormant yet still seeking for its sole purpose: to free me from the prison I’ve unintentionally placed myself in. The answer is simple.
Defy the laws of nature. Defy your own laws.
I struggle. Where should I start? What should I do? How the hell will I end this?
With every ending trails the shadow of its beginning. In order to begin again, something has to end. This part of me has to die, for death itself is an offering to life.
How can I surrender you to death?
And my experiences speak for themselves: Losing, letting go of something, is dying. The life this something has found in you can no longer sustain it, so it escapes from your clutches. Freeing, dying, ending. The ties you’ve once had now hang limp, severed from its connections. Dead.
A eulogy to Self-Depreciating Me;
You’ve been wonderful, but you barely knew it. You rarely ever let yourself appreciate what you can be and what you are. You have been loved and appreciated, but the love and appreciation you received only damaged you more than it did you any good.
Wherever you are heading to, I wish you’d give yourself a chance to discover what a beautiful woman you really are. Just overlook the narcissism, because I know you know when to determine the N-word.
Live, like what your name says, like what our name says. We’ve been one and the same, but you are free now, and so am I.
This is me: Sjerlive Clare Dioneda, a little woman with a name murdered multitudes of times already; a little woman who is beginning to establish a conviction with herself. A renaissance.