The Diary’s Cry: Journey to Unshackled Vulnerability
Finding Freedom in Being Human
Accepting The Role
I tried for years but couldn’t seem to make it. To be an artist.
In fact, I never quite fit into those high-class artsy circles, even though art is the natural language of my soul. I couldn’t imagine myself devoting to anything else. My college days were a rocky road, constantly reminding me of how confined I actually felt. To be an artist means being an example, a leader, but often, you have to hide parts of your humanity to keep human stories alive in your art, connecting with others who watch your work.
Deep down, I always knew that true self-expression required complete freedom. It’s been a recurring theme in my life, and as I grow older, I realize just how crucial freedom is to me.
Being an artist often demands sacrifice. Sometimes, you have to wear masks, pretending to be someone you’re not. Just because those famous old masters had entirely different lives and biographies from yours doesn’t mean we all need to mimic them. We shouldn’t be demigods, detached from our raw existence.
Indeed, creation is a powerful form of communication. Every writer, painter, musician, or dancer would undoubtedly agree with me on this point. When you create something, it’s meant to be seen, admired, and heard. We are inherently designed to utilize this gift.
What’s wonderful is that my journey of self-discovery helped me realize that I am much more than just an artist. I possess the innate ability for profound introspection, and for about 15 years, I faithfully poured my thoughts into my diary.
Those pages became an extension of myself, where I blossomed despite not always having the freedom to express myself fully. My upbringing was strict, yet there was continuous support for my art. Reflecting on it now, I’ve always received backing in my education, but my personal expression was a different matter.
The Roots
My father, a very traditional and conservative man, grew up under the care of two understanding parents. However, I can’t help but wonder if they may have indulged him a bit too much.
He provided for us financially, ensuring we had everything and more. Yet, I felt a void in other aspects of my life. We never shared emotional or understanding conversations, and he was distant when it came to household chores like cooking and cleaning. His treatment of my mother was far from ideal, and our talks seldom touched upon anything meaningful.
His dedication to the movie industry consumed his time day and night. Amidst this, I can recall only two instances where he praised me — once for learning how to swim, and the other when we went hiking, and I was an energetic little kid. However, criticism and punishment dominated our conversations.
Even when there was seemingly nothing to scold me about, he managed to find fault — be it my grades, phone bills being a dollar over the limit, my driving, or simply going out with friends. This is when my habit of writing began to take root.
Around the age of 12, I found solace in my diary, a place to channel and filter out my emotions. Still in the process of self-discovery, I struggled to comprehend my feelings. Whenever I experienced happiness, sadness, or burning rage, my diary bore the brunt of it all.
It was within those pages that I experienced my first inklings of love. I adorned them with sweet names, added cute stickers, and drew hearts — typical kid’s stuff, you know.
My tears would often smudge the ink when I cried, and in moments of anger, I’d tear out pages and vent my frustration, though never explicitly referring to him as ‘my father’. Instead, I had a nickname for him — an abbreviation of “A Man Who Lives Inside My House,” A.M.W.L.I.M.H for short. Writing it down might seem cumbersome, but it felt right, and I was determined to continue.
I was always spirited, unable to tolerate his massive ego, leading to several conflicts during my middle school years. Throughout my adolescence, a sense of fury consumed me.
Fortunately, my diary remained a constant companion. As I filled one notebook, I’d purchase another and give it a completely different name, as if each diary had its own distinct character. To me, my diary felt more human than my own father.
I waged a silent battle, keeping my vulnerability hidden from everyone for many years. My isolation served as a space where I blossomed, but it was also a place where I bled.
For this reason, I choose not to conform to the stereotypical artist mold.
I don’t identify as just an artist, because my deepest desire is to embrace my humanity fully. I long to freely express my frustrations, curse when necessary, and voice my discontent over trivial matters. Vulnerability is what I crave, and it’s through putting these thoughts into words that I’ve come to understand their true significance. To me, being vulnerable is synonymous with being free.
My father is the reason I felt the internal blockage of expression my whole life. That’s why I yearn to be more than just an artist. I want to become what he never was.
I Am a Human
As I approach the age of 30, I find myself pouring my heart out in these words, using my real name to reach readers across the globe. Through this act, I am embracing my freedom and allowing my creativity to flow unhindered.
Three years ago, I stopped writing in my diary when I met my husband. Though we’re not officially married yet, I have learned that I don’t need external validation for my emotions. He has become my confidant, and I can be open and expressive around him. He introduced me to a world of profound freedom and vulnerability, knowing he would never use it against me, but only to support and love me.
Discovering Medium has rekindled my love for writing. I realized how much it helps me self-regulate and understand my actions, just by contemplating the words I put on paper. I’ve read numerous Medium articles that have taken my breath away, making my dreams feel more vivid and real.
So, I extend my heartfelt gratitude to my fellow Medium writers and share a piece of myself with you.
If you were to ask me about the qualities I’ll strive for until the end of my life, I’d simply answer: “I just want to be a human.”
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