When I left for college I believed that simply by virtue of growing up the people around me would mature and finally understand and accept me.
I spent a looooong time living in denial of the fact that it has never been true.
And in talking with Laura yesterday she wants me to walk away from the past relationships and yes, of course, so do I. But I can’t just walk away — there has to be something to walk toward. What is the next thing that comes after this? It’s clear that there’s a pattern here, but if I don’t understand why, if I can’t even ask because the people who know why they left won’t tell me, then going on as before will just give me another repeat of the same damn mess. If I knew what it was they think I did wrong, then maybe I could do something about it — if I can’t salvage the old relationships, at least I could make new ones that won’t turn on me when I need them.
So I’m thinking about it on the way home last night and the words pop into my head: “There is no next.”
And a second later I realized that was the exact same idea I’ve been struggling with all this time.
At first it was hope for Morgan, but now I learn that rather than simply needing space to sort out his own hurt, he is, apparently, actually angry at me. Again, no one will tell me why.
(The rumors trickle back to me and even the people who know me better than that don’t even bother to ask me, they just assume that yes, I did something horrible, and dump me too.)
So now the only thing keeping me alive is the fact that I can’t wrap my brain around the idea that nothing comes next. Go to sleep at night, there’s always a next morning. An absolutely miserable next morning, but it’s there nonetheless. Death is not like falling asleep simply because “there is no next,” morning never comes, and, I expect, my consciousness, my self-awareness, the whatever that is ME will cease to exist.
I can’t imagine what that’s like because “not me” has no imagination. There’s nothing to compare it to.
The irony in all this is that I rather like myself. Losing the individual entity that is ME is a hard thing to accept. The problem, of course, is that I am the only one who has an intimate understanding of me and still likes me at the same time. No man is an island, and being loved — really loved, unconditionally, for who I am — is not negotiable for me. I NEED that love. I am wired that way, and I can’t simply yank those wires out.
Loving too. Being allowed to fully love people in my life. I love as deeply and powerfully as I can hurt, but for some unfathomable reason these people see that as a pathology instead of an asset. There is no bigger WTF in all of this shit than that.
“A friend is someone who is there for you when they’d rather be anywhere else.” I don’t even need a LARGE support network. Just a few is all it would take… a few who I can be absolutely sure of, who are dependable, who truly care. And one among those who is special.
I would rather be happy than dead, but… there is no next. Even alive there is no next. It amounts to the same thing either way, except that while alive I’m still aware of how reviled and unloved and ostracized I am. While alive there is no next and it HURTS. When dead, there may be no next, but at least there’s no pain either.
Tell me to keep hoping, that there is someone out there somewhere who won’t get hysterically angry and cut me out of their lives if I happen to stand up for myself and tell them that something they did hurt my feelings and can we please talk, can you please treat me better. Who won’t start quietly backing away, shutting me out, and removing themselves from my life because I thought I could trust them enough to let them see me cry. Come on. 20 years, half a dozen different geographical locations, every single group, enclave, subculture I could find that was compatible with who I am, my interests, my soul, and I just coincidentally haven’t found a single person like that yet? Really? Then where do I find them? Am I supposed to start looking in groups of frat boys and trixies, yuppies, angry young men, suburban housewives, or any other groups that have absolutely nothing in common with me? I’ll somehow find them there? Even though I don’t even get along with people like that?
Because where else am I going to look now? What other options are there?
Or reduce me to the option of hiding myself from — lying to — my “friends,” just so I can keep them. Or be genuine, trust them, and watch them all leave, again and again and again. Invest myself, my heart, my soul, my time, and watch the entire thing collapse every couple years.
And somehow expect that it doesn’t shatter me to a point where it’s completely beyond repair.
I’ve been taking the word of my multiple therapists that there is hope, somewhere, that things can get better. I’ve been taking it on pure blind faith. But it’s been months, nothing is better, and no matter what I try, if I reach out to someone, that someone just slaps me in the face. I don’t dare say a word about how I feel. Hope is a lie. I don’t belong here, anywhere, in the world, simply because the world has decided so. The world has decided I’m WRONG. I can scream at the world that they’re wrong about me all I want… what exactly will that accomplish? I’ll still be alone.
Therapy can’t change the world. It can’t make me need love any less. I’ve been backed into this corner and the only options left leave me in misery, or lead to nothing.