So, I’m in a shitty mood. Not in a crushing way, but it’s something that’s making me question how I relate to people. See, I actually lost a friend on Christmas morning of 2014. The last words they said to me were (and this is what I remember), “I can’t do this anymore. You just want people to join you in a maze and you don’t want to make any effort to get out. I will not join you. I know you have a response, but I would prefer to cut ties now.”
This is a friend who supported me for over a year, now. Stood and sat beside me as I was reeling from my childhood abuse, trying to recover. They joined me in a support group for people who experienced childhood abuse, and they said themselves that they know that I am trying to make myself better. But…I would always do something irritating. Would overanalyze things (to the point where they would tell me that I analyze things to an annoying degree), display rash acts of desperation, ask them a lot of questions, display my wounds (and my achievements, however few those are) like some sort of show-and-tell. Days before the break up, they told me that I seem to always hurt myself and crawl to them, saying, “Look at me!” Meanwhile, they pleaded with me to realize that I have a survival instinct, told me explicitly to stop reading Andrea Dworkin and other fucked up shit that feeds my self-loathing…told me to do something worthwhile with myself, but I just didn’t. I just stalled, and I wanted them to keep talking to me throughout my stalling and wailing.
If my friend’s last words to me implied that I am just a lazy fuckhead who wants to gnash, whine and cry while also having an audience (even if that audience is just one person) pitying them…they’re right. They’re fucking right. Why do you think I have this site? Why do I exist at all if not for the purpose of having someone or something validate me (even if I’m so mentally ill that it barely penetrates)? Most people would get that from their parents…apparently, I did not. So, I’m unwhole. Incomplete. Only the loss of a person who I thought of as an awesome person made me realize that I have no right to ask for someone to heal me, that I’m alone…and that maybe I just need to try shutting the fuck up…at least according to them. I don’t fucking know anymore.
It’s moments like that which make me wonder if I’m being insincere. Maybe the fact that I have to ask that question is a sign of my insincerity. I wouldn’t have to question my own honesty, my way of relating to people, if I was doing the right thing…right? Actually, no. I’ve been questioning myself in harsh ways since I was a kid, because somehow I got some message inside my head that I will never amount to anything, no matter how hard I work or how “smart” I am. That things, when it comes to me, are So Important that my fuck-ups are magnified. Like everyone is watching me (and I feel everyone IS watching me, my fault or otherwise). Oh, I may have joined a cult or two, but there was always something holding me back…or at least something that made me think, “You’ve gone far enough” when reality said otherwise (or whatever I perceive of reality). Apparently I carried those hurtful, irritating habits with me into adulthood. You know that awkward teenager phase where one is insecure, self-loathing, scared of the world and yet so amazed by it that they want to explore everything? That’s still me. It’s a pathetic state for a person to be in…so they say.
To be honest, I know jack shit about anything. To my religious self, that fact would’ve been devastating. To my Objectivist self, that also would’ve been devastating. Now…well, my ignorance, arrogance, curious nature and stupidity is so banal. So what if I’m reading Thomas Sowell’s “Basic Economics”, applying my heavy skepticism to it like some know-it-all? So what if I play Shin Megami Tensei IV? So what if I can cook? So what if I write and want to get back into life-drawing from nude models again like I did when I was (barely) living in my old city? All of that is just covering. All of that is just an insecure shell I create to make myself seem “cultured”, “smart” and “interesting”…so my friend implied when I told them how I try to be smart and learn a lot of things to ward off the pain, 2 days before they cut ties with me (to be fair, they knew mostly about my heavy book reading and latent bisexually, not about me drawing nudes in my spare time with spare expenses).
One expects the loss or gain of a friend to be some substantial chapter in one’s life. Something detailed, something that would rival the depth, beauty and tragedy of “The Octopus”, a launching pad into…some other state of being. For me, it’s not. The loss or gain of a loved one is so vast I can’t exactly put it into proper words. Maybe that’s a sign of my lack of vocabulary. Maybe those English classes I took in Elementary/High School/College did jack shit for me. All I know is that all of my “belongings” and “knowledge” are meaningless unless they are shared and seen by someone else. And losing this friend of mine, driving away someone who was in a position of sympathy with my pain, having been through something like it themselves…well, that says a lot, doesn’t it? Says a fucking lot.
I don’t like what all of this says about me. Ignoring it would mean ignoring reality (or so it’s said). I want to be better. I want to be AWESOME to be around. Living for 24 years in this world has taught me that however else you wail, hurt and scream, few want to be around when you do so. Even fewer can stand it when your only contact with them is to vent out your frustrations and pain with them. I have been in some really intense but short relationships. On one end, I would be so emotionally intense I would be pushy and irritating. On the other, I would seem to be so manipulative and distant that my love seems not genuine. This goes for friendships, too. I still toss those failed relationships in my head to this day, still hating myself for fucking up so much on multiple ends. The worst part? I can wish all of my life for closure, wish that I can either fix it all up or never have to see them in person again, so I won’t have to look into their eyes and feel their desire to murder me…which would be well deserved, given how irritating I was to each and every one of them.
There’s a cliche, “If everyone around you is an asshole, you’re the asshole”. Well…not everyone I know is an asshole. The people I have around me are happy to be around me…as far as I know. I can’t read their minds, and it frightens me because I know that without them I am nothing. As a kid, I used to have an image of myself as a very smooth person, living in a minimalist living space with just a few objects, brooding and thinking. Sometimes I’m with someone, other times I’m alone. Sometimes I dream of having someone look into my eyes, whispering along with me, as a sign that they recognize my humanity. Other times I am just completely alone. My visions of being alone of either of pain or of death, with very few being of actual contentment.
Right now, I am in undefined state. As a friend said to me after I went too far in my interaction with them, I have to be comfortable with living by myself on my own terms. I’ve been reflecting on this fabrication called “myself” for years, to the point that by the time I read up on some secondhand Zen Buddhism, I have revealed some black hole within myself that I can’t pull out of. Cis males are ugly creatures, we’re just…ugly creatures. We don’t have souls. No gender that rapes has a soul. God, my former friend is right: I’ve read too much Andrea Dworkin and now I’ve fucked myself for good. It’s not like any radical feminist would sleep with me for displaying my self-loathing like this, especially not the TERFs (Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminists, a la Julie Bindel)…but then again, they’re TERFs, so fuck those assholes.
No, but seriously, I bet any radical feminist I met in person would see right through me. If they meet me in person they would stab me in the fucking gut over and over again until I learned to get over myself and stop being a desperate, hungry fraud. By the time I finally learn to stop, I would die from blood loss. At least, that’s how I imagine people around me would act if I pushed them hard enough, or if I show too much of myself. My former friend (and my exes) at least gave me the courtesy of letting me know that they’re cutting me off. Others may not be that courteous…and maybe they shouldn’t be.
I am impossible to be around. There’s this awful stereotype of the “genius” who is either a fucking prick or a massive dork, and it cuts hard to me because in my own way I’m exactly like them. Sooner or later, someone (like my former friend) will reveal to me how fake and desperate I am, and I would be too choked up to fight back, and too late to improve for them.
I hate it when other people are right about how shitty I am. When they’re right, that’s a setback, it means that all the times I thought of myself as “improving” or as “making progress” are nothing but delusions. I can talk to my therapist and they would like me (provided I kept paying for their service) or talk to counselors and they would sympathize, but both things are scarce. I have work, healing, interests and…everything else. No matter what you do, it all rests on the sight, hearing and voices of others. You know how many artists have died in obscurity simply because their work (and by extension, them) were judged to be worthless? It’s a number that’s way too large to be comfortable. The people one calls “great” aren’t called that because they work hard, or have the biggest brains, or the most money, or work in the most “valuable” line of work like those fucking adults implore their youngest to do…the concept of “greatness” is just a prolonged act of surrender on the part of the individual (deserved or otherwise) to whatever “highest” standard(s) (or perception of such) a culture has at the time. In other words, Linkedin is doing you a favor, even if the odds of you reaping the ‘Billionaire Lifestyle” benefits are astronomical…astronomically against you.
Whenever I tell someone that I find it hard to love myself, they either say, “Find a reason to” or, “Just do something to make yourself love yourself”. Right now, I’m trying as hard as I can with what I have. I just hope that time doesn’t run out and everyone winds up hating me as a result. Though…if you do hate me right now, or at the very least are irritated with me right now, good. Let me have it. Maybe this time I will wake the fuck up.
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