Pseudomutuality and Disillusionment.

A Good Day For An Exorcism

Soul Tired

A Part Of Me Died? Absolutely.

My Homework Ate My Dog. Wait.

I almost hesitated pressing publish

My Cat Is Walking On My Keyboard

I feel like I’m writing this in a trance. Like I’m on auto pilot, and everything I’m saying — despite my best attempts to steer in any other direction — will keep going through a finite-state machine.

“You’re being dramatic” someone says.

“Perhaps. Or maybe you just lack imagination”

No-one forces anyone to be here. Reading this means you consent to reading whatever I’m about to say. And if you didn’t know, now you do.

I’ve said it once, but it seems I have to say it again — I’m not trying to save the world. I’m not the harbinger of peace. I’m not an ambitious, closeted, self-titled messiah.

If you (only) come here for good news and hope peddling — you’re in the wrong place.  I don’t see myself as a pillar — or some kind of motivational speaker.

However, if you come here for someone who is uncompromisingly themselves; real with the good and the bad? You’re in the right place. Chances are, you and I will either get along or we won’t, maybe not so binary — but at the very least you’ll know what you’re getting to.

Sure, I’ll agree that followers are a nice gig, but I won’t kiss a** in an attempt to get more of them, and you can be sure that I won’t bend in a bid to win you over either. Counter-intuitive to the growth of this platform? Yes. Absolutely. I’m willing to let many things pass me by; but not my authenticity.

I am a person who goes through every single emotion with clinical deliberation. This includes the “bad” emotions. I want good vibes, believe me, I do. But I won’t pretend I’m feeling good. I won’t intentionally hurt anyone to feel better; but I won’t curb my expression on behalf of anyone. It’s a delicate dance, but I still take part.

Do you know how many people get offended by things you wouldn’t believe offend anyone? You can offend someone for simply using gender pronouns in a hypothetical situation; not an actual situation. “Why did you choose to use a he and not a she in your example?” and so on.

There’s no way I can say any of this without it turning into a series of justifications for my actions. An act that would leave me feeling like I’m taking ten steps back on behalf of others. If you don’t like what I say — Good. I appreciate the honesty, and quite frankly I’d like to believe everything in your world is perfect now — you can find what you want elsewhere; many talented people here. In fact, you’ll find people who take on the 24/7 positivity mantle. I’m just not one of them.

Now that all the housekeeping is out of the way….

Emotions… feelings… despite having mentioned them, I’ve been numb to both for a while now. I’ve been having a hard time feeling something for/about anything. In the short-term, I don’t necessarily consider my current state to be a positive, but it does help me be more rational in my decision making. Why am I numb? Well, I’ve been handling a lot of personal issues and others far outside my control. Job security, family, visa complications… everything has become one weird amalgamate that’s dispersing unseen pressure. 

But for some people, that’s hard to believe, because my stoic nature doesn’t give that off. And what’s left for those with plenty of time on their hands? Suppositions and assumptions. My story will only mean something when I join in on the collective suffering; when I make my suffering a little more transparent so people can see and acknowledge it. 

“You don’t complain every single time we talk. You don’t share a detailed outline of your feelings the same way I do? Well that must mean you don’t care. Because the way I express myself happens to be the benchmark. And if you can’t express the way I do, or in a manner that I understand, there is something clearly wrong with you” — perhaps they are not as malicious in their thoughts as I’m presenting, but that’s how they sound to me.

I have plenty of love and empathy. I just grew tired of choosing to give it to the wrong people — people who expected my love and empathy for breakfast.

I grew tired of blaming others for how I felt instead of myself. Expecting people to fix me, expecting people to have answers to my problems. This applies in reverse, I don’t like it when people expect me to have answers on how to fix their life. I don’t like it when people come to me to have a good day and blame me for not being as jovial as I was the other day. 

Think about it — if you’re coming to me so I cheer you up… who is cheering me up? Certainly not you. But you never thought about that, did you? It’s fun siphoning other peoples’ energy, brain muscle conditioned to guzzle fun juice and not much else. No one is doing my job for me and believe me I’m not searching.

I’ve been in enough relationships with people that take on some martyr complex just so they can sate their curiosity. Lending an ear on surface level just to see how your gears work. Some sick neurotic need to feel like they are in the know, simply for the sake of their ego, and not because they care. Disinterested with the monotony of your struggle; only caring about the juicy bits so that their day gets a little better.

“You can count on me, that’s what I’m here for. To listen to everything” and perhaps somewhere deep down you think you mean it. But you don’t actually mean it, do you? It only sounds good to the ears of those that follow words and not actions.

Perhaps I obsess over language and its application. Knowing that if someone says they are willing to listen to everything; they mean everything. But not everyone knows what they are actually saying. Not everyone combs through every single word they are about to say — most act on impulse and think about the consequences later. Pavlov dogging their way to the next hit of narcissistic supply or whatever else they need to keep themselves sustained.

But I don’t have time to be vulnerable and cater to peoples’ impulses because I KNOW my issues are going to become too much. I know this for certain, because I can (at times) feel my bitterness and anger fester. I write to try and sort my mess. Taking that pain — apply it in my writing in some juvenile attempt to give it value. Sadistic repurposing of my pain, because some part of me refuses to believe it was all for nothing. I tell people not to worry about what’s bothering me because even I (the owner) can’t handle it. How can I expect you to?

You’re just curious. You don’t care. And it’s not your fault; people are engineered that way. 

I find romance hard because I’ve come to accept that if it’s going to work. I have to hold back. It’s the “healthy” thing to do. But that little distinction makes relationships useless to me. Why would I pair up with someone only to hold back on how I’m feeling out of fear of them leaving? It doesn’t work for me — how is that different from being alone?

I’ve given relationships enough chances and perhaps I’ve manifested some self-fulfilling prophecies by always expecting the worst. Sharing every little piece of me is impractical, because everyone has a line they deem “too much”. I just find it tedious having to continuously re-adjust what’s too much and what isn’t. I marked my own line and I stick by it.

Being completely honest with someone — and I mean completely — to me, bears the equivalent of jumping off a canyon; face planting; standing up and then writing a dissertation with a play by play of my experience as I fell down; perhaps evoking the sound I heard right as I hit the ground.

Was that dark? Yes. Yes, that was dark. And not for the sake of it; I’m a writer who just happens to be vivid with their expressions. 

But the standing question is, if that bothers you so much; what are you still doing here?

 

– O.D. ©2021 

 

Art by: AaronGriffinArt