The brutal truth better left untold…
I make mistakes. Sometimes I spill the sugar when I make tea, sometimes I spill the tea. Sometimes I break his heart, or hurt a friend or forget to tell you what you really mean to me. The moments in our lives that are flawless are exceptionally few. The people who truly mean something to us, are even less.
I do not think that I have to be perfect all the time, but sometimes my own weakness and propensity to hit the self destruct button astonishes even me. I never mean to do it, but I feel it build up in me for weeks as my frustrated boredom with my own inadequate means to be still within myself takes over and fills me to the brim with wreckless disregard.
I have never cared much for excessive drinking or drugs, I do not take pills to cure my ineptitude to deal with my perpetual state of unhappiness. In fact, I rarely talk to anyone about how I really feel about anything. I mean, I waffle on about what I ought to feel like, I tell you what you want to hear and I allow you to reconstruct my psyche as I nod along and realise that you do not understand me at all, for lack of trying.
So what do I do? I make mistakes. You’re familiar with my douche bag theory, no? Well, sometimes, I make mistakes. I allow the wrong guy into my life in some narcissistic desire to feel anything. ANYTHING. Being hurt is better than feeling nothing at all. (You’re the said wrong guy right now, if you haven’t caught on yet.)
This time… I really messed up this time. I allow you to fill my senses with your characteristic self-proclaimed inability to care for another human being. I set myself up for the fall time and again, because I need it. Because being sidelined by you gives me the right to be all cut up about something. Better to have some faux reason for feeling this unjustified ongoing unhappiness regardless of how great my life is, than no reason at all. I crucify myself everyday and hang the reason for that around your neck.
Sure, it’s not fair, but what do you care? Our affair was confined to a couple of abandoned and short-lived hours. We placate ourselves and pretend there was meaning beyond what it was, but we both know that is utter crap. You mean about as much to me as the next guy does (I lie now, but does it matter?) and I mean next to nothing to you. I don’t know you and you certainly don’t know me. We have to pretend that there is some deep connection that will force this affair back into life on the days we want assurance that destruction is mutual, a contact sport, a group activity where we pat ourselves on the back for being this dark and twisted.
There would be little problem with this game that we play, if the rare good guy didn’t come along. You and I would be left to fester in the glee of the self-created murky waters of our discontented abuse and misuse. How much easier would it not be to definitively know that all is jaded in this world, that humankind is not kind, that love is a lie, that men never treat me right and that you are bound to be misunderstood for eternity. Our fingers are all to trigger happy on the self-destruct button, and this makes me like you madly. No, not a lot, not in a healthy way. Madly. Mind absent, need first, carnal wildness that cannot be tamed, but demands to be fed regardless.
But every now and again it seems like someone may make it through, someone might make me (dare I say it) happy. What do I do then? Do I tell him about our sickly-secret love affair, or do I simply keep it to myself? How would you react? I have bet my bottom dollar that you will not be impressed, that you will forsake me and beseech me for allowing happiness to ruin our relationship, which of course is fuel to the hate-filled flames that I am so mesmerised with in my own soul. You will be able to confirm your irrevocable damnation of all things love. Sounding pretty perfect so far?
One major flaw. What about this guy? You know, the one I mentioned that has the potential to actually make me feel something in the lines of happiness? What do I do about telling him? Do I tell him? If I do, is that telling the truth or merely taking the easy way out and ruining any chance of something real before it even has a chance to manifest? Because what is there to tell? Nothing really. What if he somehow finds out? Do I then become the insensitive slut in the scenario? All of these options make little difference to how I feel right now (or the lack of how I feel, anyway) , but what about this guy? A nice guy that doesn’t deserve to be dragged into our pas-de-deux of pain.
Some mistake, right? But it’s my mistake, and I have fix it. Though right now I have no idea where to even start, apart from acknowledging that we do have a problem – I dug a hole for myself and before I knew it I was in China. So now what? Do I crawl back into my dark hole or do I check out China? You’re like this great big excuse for not going out there and meeting someone. It’s easy to hide out in my fear while you enable and indulge me. I know as well as you do that you’ll never truly be interested in me, but then – it’s easier to like someone who you know will never like you back. There is no risk, no fear, no courage required.