I feel stuck in this moment, and I realize it’s because I think I’m supposed to say something new and different in this post to keep my imaginary audience interested. I think I’m not supposed to be boring. I think that a lather, rinse, repeat of “I’m scared,” “I want to feel loved,” “I’m sad to be alone,” is the surest way to turn someone else off. You know what I realize now? It’s not my fucking job to keep someone else from turning off. (Alright, so I initially wrote, “to keep someone else turned on,” but although that’s clearly not what I meant, the obvious alternate meaning was too distracting. Much in the same way this whole parenthetical is distracting.)
My life isn’t a source of entertainment for others, yet I live it as though it is. I live my life more concerned about what other people think or, even more-pathetically, might think of me than I am concerned about Actually. Living. My. Life. I would so hate for my life to be boring to the people who don’t know me, have never met me, will never meet me, and aren’t really reading this fucking blog anyway. Jesus.
The truth is I am a moody, depressive, hermetical, self-centered, cowardly, stick-in-the-mud bore. Otherwise known as a loser. Lather, rinse, repeat. Oh, and I’m fat.
Of course, that’s not the whole truth. Except for the fat part.
I have a personality type and characteristics that seem to be pretty deeply rooted. I have patterns of behavior that are nearly as old as I am. I repeat the same moods, the same processes, the same fantasies and thoughts ad nauseam. This struggle with loneliness, the grief that it bears, is a predominant part of the past year or two of my life. I want to say that if I and my therapist can deal with it, then so can everyone else. I want to say that if they can’t, then they are free to go. I want to say these things because I feel defensive. Because the truth is, I’m afraid that everyone will go.
I’m afraid that if I don’t get shit my together fast enough–if I don’t find a way to quickly and permanently morph into the happy-go-lucky, bringing-sunshine-with-me-wherever-I-go person I’m convinced I would have been had my mother just been a better mother–UNLOVEABLE will be tattooed across my forehead such that when I die and my soul separates from my body, Ghost Me will harbor the brand. And when I’m reincarnated as a beetle in my next life (for the love of all that is holy in this world, I beg you God not to make me live as a human again), it’ll be there in teeny tiny letters on my little beetle shell.
Sigh. Lather, rinse, repeat.
I get to be boring. I get to write the same things over and over and over again ad nauseam because this whole damn thing is about me anyway. I am doing it for me. The point of it is (at least one of the points, I think) is to learn to love myself as I actually am and to stop trying so hard for the sake of other people to be what I’m not. I want to end that with a Fuck y’all because as much as I wish it were otherwise, it still matters to me what all of you imaginary people think of me.
(I’m actually afraid of what imaginary people think of me. I’m so much more screwed than I thought I was, and I thought I was pretty well screwed.)