Hey Jude

There are a lot of issues I need to figure out while anticipating my upcoming quarter-life crisis. From loneliness to future plans, career, love, and everything else in between, something struck out the most; and it wouldn't have had I not been having intense discussion about who I am and how I handle things with one of my best friends.

Jude St. Francis is a character in Hanya Yanagihara's A Little Life who has gone through so much in his past, so bad that it never left him. Nobody, not even his three best friends and Harold Stein, the well-respected law professor he's grown close to, could convince him that he's worthy of something good, just like everybody else. And nothing, not his achievements, not even Harold's respect and love for him, could cure him of his insecurity. No matter what they all did--Harold even adopted him as his adult son--could make Jude believe that he is capable--and deserving--of happiness. The way he saw it, eventually everyone will regret ever loving him and will immediately turn their backs on him. That somehow loving him is a regrettable act because he is a man who is so undeserving of love, that people who love him are either blind or incapable of seeing that he is deeply flawed, and when they found something with him, they'd leave him. Jude loves those people, of course. But he would never be ready to lose any of them, so he'd prefer not to get too attached with anyone so that when these people actually leave, he won't be as devastated.

So with Jude, it's like people could have bought the moon for him, and still he won't believe that he's worthy of love and respect.

But this is not a post about Jude St. Francis.

Over a year ago, I wrote something similar to this post (or at least, what this is supposed to be). I was leaving people who meant a lot to me; perhaps not just people, but the whole routine that we used to do. I remember someone cried while I bid my farewell, and I went home, writing my heart out while trying to hold back some tears, and I thought, God. Why didn't I realise how much they loved me? The feeling, the memory of such melancholia, feel so fresh, even today.

This time, nobody cried. If anything, the day went just like any other day before it: busy, full of surprises, but just a little more cheerful than usual. But then I went home later that night--after a glass of lychee martini--and as I was gulping down cold water due to the extreme thirst it left me with, I felt a tinge of sadness... like there's something missing. It was as if I left something I held so dear; a precious possession that I did not know I had but knew existed.

Starting tomorrow, you won't feel much-needed anymore. You won't hear someone saying that you have half of his brain. You won't hear him telling you and other people point blank what a heartbreaker you are. You won't hear him saying how it's his loss that you're gone, and that it was his privilege to be someone you look up to; someone whose opinion of you, mattered to you. You won't easily name someone who simply respects you, despite what you believe yourself to be.

But you also won't hear him making strange comments about you or anything else. You won't have to allow him to push you into a lion's den anymore. You won't have to push and be pushed anymore; you know how all of these pushing games have been so tiring for you? Don't you remember how scared you are to be put into place where elsewhere, it would have to be someone at least 5 years your senior? Where's all that wounds from the exhaustion you keep getting?

I know that it had not been all great. But it had not been all bad, either. As always, I'm so forgetful and my capacity is not enough to contain everything at once, so naturally it chose to take in only the good ones. I'm still wondering why the sadness feels so tough and even hurts a little...

...but deep down, I always know that it was because that night, a Jude St. Francis was losing his Harold Stein.