These Are My Confessions

I can't complain. I mean I shouldn't complain. Choosing this path, I knew from the beginning that if things worked out, I would be baring myself out there to the public, putting myself and my image to the rest of the world to praise...to criticize. After all, how could I not have known this when I set up the camera and saw that blinking red light? When the views went up, those weren't mere numbers. Those were sets of eyes that scrutinized my every move. I prepared for it all, and yet, I found that no amount of preparation could fully allow a person to absorb the tidal wave of opinions, most of the time unsolicited, upon their own image. My privacy went out the window. I became a public figure.


My privacy had packed its bag and left me with a slight hint of confusion as to how to deal with its departure. Although I had had my fair share of public appearance since I was 17, being a vlogger had gotten me audience on a scale that I never expected before. Being a feminist vlogger seems to open up doors for people to flood me with their deeply rooted hatred and fear -- fear of having the status quo disrupted. Some realize this, and yet, some do not. They justify their distaste for me by flinging out accusations and reasons that are utterly devoid of common sense. And yet, they still do. We do embrace freedom of speech, don't we? Even when the speech comes in the form of an attack.

I get recognized out in the public. Quite often. At first, it was thrilling. I thought, "Oh wow, this stranger knows me. I'm not just a nobody after all." But after some time, it has become, "Wow, this person knows me. I wonder what they think about me now that they see me in person. I wonder if I measure up to their expectation. I wonder if they are disappointed." So many 'I wonders'. Don't get me wrong; I adore my fans. Meeting them is just as thrilling, but now it comes with a bag of uncertainty. Of self-doubts. Of bewilderment. I wonder...

I no longer have privacy. I have to mind my every step, worried that people might perceive me the wrong way. I mind my words, worried that people twist my words and use them against me.

And yet, they still manage to find a way to do exactly that.

My friend recently told me that I'm not a nefarious person; I'm just easily misunderstood. I'm too honest and straightforward for the world to digest. I'm too sarcastic that people take offense easily. I don't mince my words because I don't believe in cushioning people against the truth. All those traits have collected me a string of people who probably would stand there and watch me bleed if I was ever run over by a truck.

I loathe having to conform. If I conformed, I wouldn't have created a feminist vlog discussing taboos. I would be working a nine-to-five office job and go home to my husband, living a normal life. But no, I thrust upon myself a burden -- a burden that I absolutely love. I wouldn't have it any other way. It has brought me so much grief and heartache, but I wouldn't change it for the world.

I have been labeled by strangers and people who barely take the time out to get to know me. It's understandable. Our ancestors developed the trait to prejudge people so that they could identify who was a friend and who was a foe in a short period of time. They didn't have time to get to know someone over coffee. Tigers were waiting to devour them. We never lost that trait.

People think I'm arrogant because making small talks is the equivalence of pinning nails on my fingers. I never really know what to say to strangers, especially a large group of people. Do I talk to them about Me, Too? Do I talk to them about the dreadful state of the world and global warming? Or do I talk to them about Donald Trump? No, those topics are ones that people generally don't make small talks about. Now that I'm sitting here, thinking about it, what do people make small talks about?

Lately, I have watched piles and piles of accusations waxing into its own planet -- accusations that are mostly (if not all) found on zero basis of facts. But no one cares. Facts are boring. Facts are me sitting at home reading and petting my dogs. Who would want to gossip about me reading a Sarah J. Mass book, curling up next to my dogs? Rumors are dramatized. They are meant to enlarge my life into a wild adventure; one where I'm fleeing to Sweden with an overwhelmed amount of money. One where I sneaked around like a secret spy, buying land in a pseudonym, waiting to build a villain lair, preparing to take over the world. One where I breed dragons in the deepest part of the cave and train them to murder the male population of the world. Okay, maybe the last one hasn't been talked about yet, but I wouldn't be surprised.

It's easy to bring someone up, but it's just as easy to tear someone down. It's been centuries, but people still enjoy a witch hunt now as we did back then. Your innocence matters not once the public has made their mind up. 

We gossip and spread rumors because essentially, deep down, we're storytellers. Since the dawn of time, humans enjoy weaving stories. It makes us feel larger than life. It makes us feel like we have control over this fictional world of ours as opposed to the real world where we can only control a small number of variables.

You know deep down in your heart that you don't desire the truth. If you wanted to know the truth, all you had to do was ask. But you didn't. You want the tales spun bit by bit, poured together into a broth that threatened to spill over.

So...rumors fly. They fly faster than a helicopter on the way to rescue the emperor of the world. Thanks to social media (Mark Zuckerberg, I'm looking at you), it's more convenient than ever for people to indulge in their favorite pastime. People talk. It's what we do. Language bonded us. Language turned us into a super power.

I can't explain myself to everyone, and I don't think people are interested to hear my banal tale at the moment. It's more exciting to paint me as a nefarious person, hellbent on destroying everyone with my power. Since we're at this point, I might as well indulge in their little tale.

It's time I tell all of you the truth. I'm an immortal. No, I'm not a vampire. I feed off of people's sufferings and pain. To sustain my everlasting lifespan, I take away what people prize the most -- money or their possessions -- and I absorb their pain. It's my life force. I go wait in the bushes in front of my victims' house, wait until they fall asleep, and then I fly into their room. Even though what I take off of people are not necessary, it has helped me build a lavish lifestyle that I do enjoy.

The amount of fortune I have amassed has surpassed my ability to keep track. In all the five hundred years that I have lived, I have bought six secluded islands. I have weaved tales after tales about the tragedy and vengeful spirits living on those islands when in fact, I just want to have a quiet life with my animals. 

I have a vast collection of books, most of which are signed, first editions. My book dragons help keep them safe. They have been trained not to breathe fire around the fragile parchment papers. The dogs that you see in all my photos aren't actually dogs. They are hellhounds that Lilith has gifted me for my 400th birthday. She's not as awful as people say she is. 

I'm the only one of my kind. You see, it's been an incredibly lonely existence. I long for company, but I detach myself because sooner or later, they will die. They will die and I will remain. Hearts can heal but they always leave scars. I have loved and I have lost. People have thrown sticks and stones, but I always heal. It's been a lonely existence, but the fleeting love that I've felt has made it less lonely. And for those that have loved me, I thank you and reciprocate the feeling from the bottom of my heart. 

I am easily misunderstood, but thank you for understanding me.

Love, Cath
xx