I always say that I feel unloved.
This, naturally, hurts people who allegedly love me. And, because my expression of my own thoughts causes pain in others, most of the time, I just choose not to express my thoughts. I’d like to think that I care about my friends, which is why I choose not to intentionally hurt those around me, but sometimes, I feel as if their concern is just an attempt to construct me into their image of what they want as a friend. It is reductionist, almost. It is compiling all that is my existence, seeing it in its whole, and rejecting it because it does not fit their conception of their own conception of me. Nowhere in their concern of me is the act of validating the sentiments that I express. They see the expression of my thoughts, they reject it, and that is all she wrote.
It is clear that I do not love myself. I see no reason to love myself. Since I tend to conceptualize the world relative to myself, I tend to take my own subjective views on the world and apply them as truth. But, in the end, it is my truth. I do not attempt to apply my truth in the lives of others. And, so I wonder, why is it that everyone attempts to apply their truths to me?
My ideas belong in the minority. Most of the time, my ideas are exoticized to appeal to a mainstream audience. I’m a token sadboi among my peers, which is partially also my fault due to my own constructing when I had been searching for an identity that made sense of all my experiences. Most of the time, I play my ideas off like a joke because it is the only medium that makes sense to others who do not believe my ideas. I consider my ideas to be truth. I recognize that others may not consider my ideas to be truth, so I divulge my ideas in a harmless medium that is prone to exoticism but also more accessible and less strange to others. This is the trade off that I create. However, when I write, I offer the unadulterated version of what I preach.
When I write, I no longer give the same humorous image of sadness that I construct in my life. The show is what I present to others; the writing is what is behind the curtain. The stage is curated, presentable, and entertaining; the backstage is gross, ugly, and repulsive. I don’t show people the backstage very often. But, if someone wants to see the backstage, I don’t turn people down to see the backstage. Then, they would see the backstage, and they would reject the backstage. They would recoil and refuse to believe in the authenticity of the backstage. Yet, to me, as someone who manages the entire production, the backstage is far more real than whatever presentable image I false create for others. Yet, to them, as the audience who can only see the end product, the backstage represents the something that they cannot understand.
When people see something they cannot understand, they label it is strange. Then, they would try to reject its existence, appealing to the image of the stage that they have come to know. Everyone can appreciate a production of Swan Lake. The ballerinas are delicate, graceful. The show fits their understanding of ballet. But, when they go backstage and see the ballerinas taking off their ballet shoes, the sights of disfigured and injured toes repulses them. They cannot understand what they see, so they choose to not acknowledge that which they see. Not everyone can understand the
I sometimes think that I am just profoundly discomforted by the idea that someone could ever love me. Then, I would always think, why?
It seems like such a strange concept to me… that someone could like me, much less love me. Even the thought brings me profound discomfort.
Whenever someone would tell me that they like me, my first recourse would be to doubt their authenticity. They don’t mean what they say, or they don’t believe in what they say. If I could not convince myself to doubt their authenticity, then I would doubt their credibility. They do not know the meaning of liking someone, or they don’t know enough about me to like me. I am so convinced that if someone got to like me better, then they wouldn’t like me. It seems so intuitive to me that I have so little idea of why others cannot see it. Convincing others that they shouldn’t like me is the same as convincing others that the sky is blue; if they cannot see that the sky is blue, then there is nothing I could say or do that would convince them otherwise.
There is so much I want to say about this, obviously because it causes some distress among my friends, but there are so many limitations in terms of how I want to say the things that I want to say. It is an example of either getting it or not getting it. There is so little that I could say to convince others of the convictions that I hold about myself. They are points of my life that are not negotiable with others. This is my life. I dictate how I perceive myself in my life, and I’m not interested in the opinions of others to tell me how I should view myself or live my life. This is my life. I don’t want others meddling in my life. I am not interested in the judgment of others nor am I interested in changing myself to fit their conception of what is a “healthy” life. This is my life.
So often have I noticed that people don’t see me. They see what they want to see out of me. I’m an image. I suppose that what I am feeling can be applied to others as well. I’m sure that I am not the only person in the world that feels that the world does not see them for who they are. But, when the image is challenged, the relationship goes sour. The image can only exist as long as the image in which the image is based on is upheld. But, as reality goes, the enforcement of the image is contingent on a deviation from the entropic nature of relationships. The image is only sustained through the will. And, because the image can only exist as a contradiction, then the image is destined to falter with time. Such is the conflicting nature of knowing and understanding.
When I say that I want to kill myself, I really mean that I want to kill myself. This, naturally, concerns my friends, who supposedly do not want me to kill myself. But, honestly, there is a part of me that doesn’t care what they think. If I were to kill myself, the least thing I would be concerned about is the feelings of my friends. If I were to kill myself, I probably had a good reason to kill myself, and that reason is beyond something that my friends can comprehend. They only can see the side of me that I present to them. The reality of my life is not something that anybody can comprehend because, as per the nature of comprehension, we can only comprehend based on our existing comprehension.
If I die, I die, and that’s all she wrote.
shades of gwei 