You know, I'm a really good pretender sometimes. Sometimes I am; sometimes I'm not. And I can write through the pain or with the pain or about the pain, and I can write when I'm superbusy because I have to 'update soon.' And I can make it all sound good. I'm fine, I'm silly, I'm funny, I'm insightful, I'm weird 'but in a good way' (whatever the fuck that means), I'm smart, I'm whatever.
But you know, I'm always second guessing myself. And that little voice in my head, she just never shuts up, and she always has something to say about how I just really, really screwed up on that last PM or review reply I sent you. Self-esteem problems much, 'phfina?
'Fraid so.
So I plaster that smile on my face, and I tell myself: "oh, she's busy, that's why she hasn't replied, and, anyway, bitch, how long have you kept everybody else waiting and you're just expecting a response after a second, minute, hour, day? They have lives! You know what that is? 'Lives'? Why don't you get one and stop being such an alert-whore?"
And then the talk goes downhill from there: "Why did you write that? That wasn't funny at all! She'll know now, won't she, how fucked up you are. That's why she's not replying. You are one fucked up little bitch, 'phfina, and this girl was a smart one, breaking off, disengaging when she still could, before you could really fuck her up and but good with your mind-fuck games."
Do you know how hard it is to have that voice just eating away at me and still get your coffee order right? Well, get your order right most of the time?
And then I go home, exhausted from keeping that fake-smile up all day, and I fight that voice and tell myself: "Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!" and I'm screaming at myself into my pillow and crying so hard ... you know the cry, right? Where you cry so hard that you don't dare make a sound so it's the silent-scream cry because if you really do let loose the neighbors call the police, again, and there's that knock on the door and questions about spouse abuse and no, officer I live alone ['fucking loser,' the little voice comments] and yes, you can search the place, see, nobody hurting here.
Nobody.
Nobody hurting here. That's me: nobody. What, no, officer, I'm fine, thank you for the card, yes, I'll call the number. Yes, I promise. No, I'm fine, really. Thank you; good night.
I'm fine. Yeah, I'm fine.
And I thought I was doing so, so well. I won the hug game yesterday, again, and everybody said in group last night how, oh, fuck, how proud they were of my "complete transformation." And I get home and I check my email and it's a few "good story" reviews and the fucking EMPTINESS just fucking crushes me into that bed and I grab my pillow and I just start screaming and the fucking tears come again ['fucking cry baby' she whispers in me as I scream] and ...
Where is that fucking magic wand?
You know, we have all kinds in group, and there's some who were heroin addicts and, you know, other stuff, sex addicts, alcoholics, lots of stuff, and some people who are just dealing with life, husbands, wives, singles, divorcees, gays, straights, social workers, politicians, massage therapists, business owners, sbux baristas, and, lucky me, I've never been hooked on drugs, because I probably would have O.D.ed and died a long time ago.
Yeah, lucky me.
Yeah, so I wouldn't be facing this agony now, being dead and dust and worm food for years now. Yeah, so I get to just go on, pushing through this unmovable bleakness and blackness and despair, waking up another day so I can wake up another day, so when somebody says, 'hey, violet, how are you today?' I put that smile on my face and I can say:
I'm fine.
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When I started reading this I began to remember how many times that I used that F-word. Then someone told me that it stood for Fucked up Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional.Then I realized something, I realized that every time I used that F-word it was because I was one or more of those things. I'm not saying this because I'm attempting to make it about me. Rather I'm trying to say 'thank you.' Thank you for showing me that I'm not the only one who's felt this way.
ReplyDeleteSo that brings me into my next point. You're not alone! "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation," Thoreau said that, and I think that applies now more than ever. I think that for every person that admits something like you just did there are ten people reading at home saying "I wish I could do that."
Can I tell you a story? I hope so.
This week I've been on vacation, I've been staying with two uncles and my dad in a 33 foot trailer at a lake in Northern California. And last night, as I looked at the starts, I felt empty. And I did exactly as you said, I cried so hard it had to be silent, otherwise I let everyone in my family know how screwed up I am. Because "I'm the rock," I'm "the selfless one" and I admit I am both of those things. But I am those things in response to those same 'worthless' feelings that you talked so candidly about.
So now that I've said that publicly we're up to 20 people in their silent desperation saying "I wish I could do that."
And now that I have. And now that I've stripped most of my armor off (though not all of it, never all of it) I think I'm going to get a clean pair of socks and put on my shoes and go for a walk along the beach. And when I get back with a frown on my face and someone asks if I'm okay I'll respond with those two words.
"I'm fine"
--Ryan