Putting them together(Completed)

My phone nearly died the other day, a rare occurrence that hasn’t happened in a long time, stranding me with my thoughts until I reached home. This led me to rework the journal I jotted in my notebook into reflections, processing what I should have considered and shaping it into a letter—hence the name of this blog.

I’ve been running on two hours of sleep for three consecutive days. For someone who ensures her daily schedule remains undisturbed, the thought of reaching this point never crossed my mind. Losing control over what I fiercely cherish feels overwhelming, and my subconscious clings to the joy of socializing to compensate, trading rest for fleeting highs. Perhaps that’s the only way I can lose sleep, despite being sleep-deprived and possibly having ADHD. Choosing to cut rest to chase fun, just to fuel my motivation to improve and move forward, feels unsustainable. I must address this. (Realization struck me as I typed this paragraph.)

I’ve begun exploring the exchange student program, making essential calls and leaving my contact information. Days have passed, and I should follow up soon, as time is running out. The lack of motivation isn’t helping, and though I hesitate to blame it on possible undiagnosed ADHD, this feels unusually exhausting. Whether it works out or not, I’ll soon decide what to do with my remaining two school years. I had hoped the program staff would call me after I left my contact details.

Work hasn’t been going well. I was given more responsibility, and though I’m managing it diligently, I don’t believe I can care for someone else while doing so. A colleague under my supervision fell ill, unable to adapt, and can only work limited hours. I thought I was the incompetent one in most situations. I hope she can pull her weight soon, as I must handle both our workloads until she’s ready.

Relationship-wise, we’ve made progress in understanding each other over the past several weeks, despite minor conflicts. These conflicts fueled my unease with cultural differences and past betrayals, likely because my attachment is growing faster than my trust. It’s like tugging a balloon swayed by every breeze—sometimes hitting my face, other times nearly slipping away. So I grip the string, entwining my fingers with it, even as it opens wounds over scars left by another balloon. I’m too afraid to pull it close to stop the wavering, fearing it’s filled with nails that might burst in my chest. Yet I can’t let go, or the wounds it caused and the pain I endured would be for nothing. So I stand here, listening for a rattle, praying it’s not filled with something that will make it pop, enduring all the tugs and jolts.

I never wanted unprocessed thoughts and emotions to control my actions and decisions. I’ve always aimed to take responsibility for the impact and pain I’ve caused. I never wished to let my subconscious blame others, despite its tendency to do so. So it surprised me when I began choking myself with familiar doubts and unease. This time, I haven’t tied the balloon’s string to my wrist, yet I still see new scars on my hand where another balloon once left its mark. (You spoiled me, you know? A balloon full of water, meeting every pressure I applied with equal weight. You never gave me a string to hold; you just rested in my arms.) The last balloon I held was cold and heavy. The breeze never moved it, but it chilled my hand. Fearing it would numb my hand, I held it with one hand while the other rested in my pocket, expecting it to burst or deflate unnoticed, robbing me of both hands for future balloons. I didn’t see that it could warm the longer I held it, perhaps providing warmth if I embraced it more dearly. Instead, I braced for loss and let it slip.

Now I wonder: Did I offer her the balloon she craved? If it still belongs to her, would she cherish it? How can I atone for pulling the balloon from her hands after doubting her embrace, and continuing to yank it away even after she held it dearly? I forgot that she, too, feared it might vanish or wound her, holding it at arm’s length yet gripping tightly. Why did I realize this only after taking it from her?

It’s been months, but I still dwell on this lost opportunity—a door I closed and locked, likely now locked on both sides. Though it’s a complex image, I hold onto these “keys”—my feelings for each door I’ve locked—as memories, kept in ornate glass boxes on a glass shelf. Time will blur my memory of the other side, but the keys’ engravings faintly recall what was. This key, however, I’ll tie to a string, worn near my heart but hidden. I pray that if I reach for it to unlock the door, the engraving cuts me, forcing me to drop it, sparing me from learning if the door remains locked and sparing her from being hurt by me again.

The balloon analogy for feelings resonated deeply, despite emerging as I wrote. It vividly portrayed what happened and how much I despise myself for it.

I saw a young man who no longer wished to hold the water balloon. He demanded that the young woman (please forgive me if this gender portrayal feels uncomfortable) return it and proceeded to take it from her. Frustrated, he focused only on his feelings, seeing her hold the balloon at arm’s length, away from her heart, like a cub. She clutched it close, even hugging it, terrified of losing it to the one who gave it, while refusing to reclaim her own balloon she’d given him. Selfish and filled with doubts, he tore it from her arms. Her eyes, filled with tears like a dam breaking, were unable to hold back the sorrow when the balloon left her hands. One drop became two, then streams of tears flowed down her cheeks, a never-ending river of sadness, as she stared at the balloon that was once hers and the man who gave it. Unable to speak, her endless tears and longing stare stirred an unfamiliar pain in his heart—a pain he’d never felt. Yet he held back his tears, determined to give his balloon to someone who would cradle it tenderly from the start. She cried and softly begged him to return it, but he continued to self-righteously list reasons to refuse. Slowly, she took back her balloon, her courageous gift to him, and silently placed it in her lap. His eyes brimmed with tears, his heart heavy with guilt, unable to look at the balloon he’d returned. He stood there, waiting for a sign—a word, a gesture—to know he could leave. With a voice full of sorrow, staring at her unwanted balloon, she spoke of how she’d cared for his balloon, her fears, and why she held it so. Each word, laced with tears, radiated pain. Even then, she hoped he’d return her balloon to her embrace. But he hardened his resolve, braced for the burden of his choice, and apologized repeatedly, urging her to find someone more caring to hold her balloon. Their conversation, sometimes filled with sorrow, other times regret, rarely contained anger. After several exchanges, she paused, sighed, and gave up. He felt a slight relief. She looked up from the balloon and stared at him. Then he realized there was no woman—only a child whose favorite balloon had been taken. Her eyes held no anger, only sadness; she couldn’t hate the one who took it. In her eyes, he saw his reflection: a boy in oversized clothing, pretending to be mature. Oh, sinful boy, why did you give this innocent child a balloon only to take it away? She smiled through her tears, her voice trembling, and said, “Thank you for sharing your balloon with me. It was beautiful. I wish someone kind would hold it for you next time.” He ran, never looking back, slammed the door shut, and locked it. He was neither mature nor kind—only selfish. He cried that day, but this was his choice, a pain he chose, unlike her. I hope whoever reads this understands how much I still hate that boy.