Me, Stripped Bare

I'm currently reading "The Bride Stripped Bare" by Nikki Gemmell, formerly known as Anonymous.

I'm only somewhere near halfway through, but if I have one thing to say about this book, it is that it is depressing. Poignantly so. Well, so far. Yet, it was a best-seller. Chic lit. It is undeniably chic lit, but heavy stuff it is. IMHO.

Reading it, I felt it strike a chord. It was about a woman who is dissatisfied with her marriage, or rather the state her life is in. More accurately, I think, she is unable to find satisfaction in something, in anything at all about her life in the aftermath of her disillusionment of marriage. Eventually, she takes a lover, which satisfies her for a while, but only really offers a brief respite. After the novelty has worn off, she begins to tire of him. I've just started reading that part, and the story continues in its poignant sadness.

The protagonist is an unending paradox. She is naive, but deeply cynical. A woman of innocence, but possesses great sexuality. She is a woman who has given up hope, yet keeps her eye riveted on the horizon, waiting for a knight in shining armour, the cresting of the faintest glimmer of happiness, something, anything to change her life for the better. She is a woman who no longer believes, yet clings stubbornly to faith. I don't think we ever know her name.

Nikki Gemmell initially did not publish this under her own name, but anonymously as, well, Anonymous. Apparently, she did not want it to be known as her work as she feared it would hurt her own relationship with her husband, family and friends as something so raw and plainitive could only hit too close to home. And apparently, it did. The people closest to her were hit hard by it, apparently, when it was revealed she wrote the book. Yet, she felt it needed to be written.

The book is raw. It is plainitive. There is a certain desperation to the way it is written, and it is disturbingly haunting, because for me, it did hit close to home.

I sometimes wish I could write here anonymously. Not for the first time. Then I could write what I really wanted to, without fear of hurting the people I know, people I care about, because sometimes what I have to say, what I need to let out I know WILL hurt some people. I have tried to write anonymously, but was found out. Apparently, my writing style is too recognizable. :oP It is frustrating having to censor myself for the sake of diplomacy, yet it is necessary. I have no desire to hurt my nearest and dearest, yet it is sometimes at war with my need for self-expression. But today, the need for self-expression wins.

I think that sometimes I could easily be her. The Bride. Having to hide what I really am, what I'm really feeling behind a mask of who I'm supposed to be, behind an act of who I ought to be, because I don't want to hurt the people I love, the people who love me.

You know how some people say that if you keep thinking you're happy and act like you're happy, you'll eventually achieve true happiness? What a load of bollocks. Believe me, I've tried it, and all it did was make me almost hysterical with the whole pretence of it. Pretending is well and good, but it is only pretend.

I'm only just realising some things. I feel like I give too much of myself without taking enough back in return. Generosity works both ways. It is not better to give than to receive, another load of pure bollocks. Rather, it is finding the balance between giving and receiving - and right now, I do not take back enough.

Having said that though, I don't blame anyone for it. It is part of my character to not ask for things. I hate asking for things and absolutely refuse to accept things not freely given, of the person's own accord, hence the refusal to ask. And when people don't, I get disappointed. I know, I can't realistically expect people to be psychic, but.. *shrug* I hate imposing myself on people.

So I tried asking, it's about time I learn to anyway, but that doesn't seem to be working too well either. Is there a Plan C? Or maybe I should persevere with Plan B still?

Oh God. Blue is on the telly, singing horribly horribly off-key. Some Concert in Hyde Park shite. Someone shoot me through the head now.

I feel suppressed, people demanding I'm not allowed to do things, forbidding me things I like and enjoy, denying me my desires. People telling me I can't do certain other things, that I am incapable of accomplishing some dreams. I know I shouldn't let it discourage me, but when there's nobody there to root for you in your camp, it's hard to keep your chin up and you don't really know how to cope. And to hope your loved ones will be there for you, I've long since learned that not even loved ones can be depended upon to be there for you when you really need them to be. And that makes the loneliness ever more lonely.

The Bride. The desolation, the feeling of being invisible and insignificant in every sense, the feeling of utter hopelessness and being infinitely weary. So weary. I feel so tired.

I'm rambling. It's late, that may have something to do with it. But I've always been less inhibited when I write, late at night, all alone. I no longer feel like I have to jaga hati anyone, be someone else for everybody else's sake. No, that's not entirely right. I'm not someone else for other people, I'm just the chirpier me, burying all the unhappiness for sake of better social interaction. Pteh. But when the quiet velvet of night falls and I am entirely alone with my thoughts, the need for pretence slips away. And the need to write compels.

Why I want people to read this, I know not. But write I have. I'm going to watch TV now. Potatoes and Dragon is on. I love that cartoon. Have a good night, everyone. Better than mine, at least. Be well.