I have so much to say, but I don’t have the desire to say it all. I’m a little talked out at the moment, and I find it hard to engage in meaningful conversation with others, especially when they want to talk about the things that are affecting me right now. When I talk, I find it hard to tap into the fast depleting reserves of resilience that I could once depend on. With every word I utter I can feel my energy being drained away, my frustration grow, and the amount of things I have to talk about double, and all the while my desire to talk to about things shrink. It’s a vicious, vicious cycle that can seemingly only be broken by not talking, or by talking so much I hit rock bottom. My morbid side wonders what it would look like if I hit rock bottom, when I lose everything I’m trying so desperately and futilely to cling onto right now, and I secretly wonder how liberating it would be to have absolutely nothing left at the end of the drop. And then I grab myself together and remind myself that I’m not driving around without a wind shield on my car, walking barefoot to the gas station for cigarettes, nor cultivating a colony of fruit flies in my cavernous room with blacked out windows. As much as hitting rock bottom appeals to me right now, I have people that depend on me, and goals I want to achieve.
But yeah, talking about it…yuch.
For those of you at home that have been paying attention, I started therapy some time back. Initially it was fun to have someone who would listen to what I had to say without my audience constantly interrupting, side-tracking me, or simply sitting there waiting for me to stop. I never knew just how boring I was until I finally started paying someone to listen to me from start to finish; I’ve never had the floor for this long without my audience slowly slipping into a glazed and bleary-eyed stare. The fun stopped once I was done saying what I wanted to say, and the look of interest had been replaced by one that seemed to be a mix of genuine concern and stunned bafflement. That was session number three or so, and it was the first time I felt like it was okay for me to be in therapy without feeling like a whining, self-involved homo. At the start of the first session, Gina (my therapist) explained to me that she doesn’t like to focus too much on the past and rather focus on immediate, practical ways in which to improve your situation. So rather than doing deep psycho-analysis, she’d concentrate more on helping me in the short run. Of course, she also thought I would be a walk in the park, an easy-money patient where she wouldn’t have to work too hard to earn her therapy-dollar. Several sessions along, and we’re still talking about my upbringing, the look of concern intensifying on her face. At least I’m making her sweat, I guess.
So yeah, I get my talking done, but I was hoping I could get that done without breaking down carefully erected mental barriers and coping-mechanisms that took years and years to perfect! These are the things that I have learned to cling to in order for me to keep on ignoring the fact that certain things weren’t so normal. Normalcy is an often discussed concept between Gina and I, and after discussing it to death, I’ve finally managed to get her to admit that while she’s seen “worse,” my “situation” has lead me to “develop some interesting and unique personality traits.” Of course she’d phrase it that way, because every time it gets hard to talk about something, or to admit something to myself, I am ready to call it quits, and she still needs to get paid, so maintaining an atmosphere where-in it still seems like the things we face are tough but ultimately manageable.
I like the self-reflective part, to be honest, no matter how hard it is to get to know yourself, I’ll take understanding of my own short-comings over wilful ignorance, if only so I can avoid dishes that “may contain nuts.”
One of the things that I have come to realise and kinda of accept – …kinda… – is that talking with those you love doesn’t always help to resolve things. Sometimes, some of us need more than understanding and mutual respect in order to remain close. Personally, I was of the belief that understanding each other’s personal dilemma’s could create almost infinite supplies of forgiveness and willingness to persevere, provided that the disagreement between two people didn’t actively infringe upon either one. Then again, I’ve been accused of putting more effort and energy into a relationship that didn’t deserve it. I like to call that loyalty, others tell me that it’s spelled s-t-u-b-b-o-r-n. The problem for me is that I can’t stop caring about people that are close to me, and I can’t stop trying when I care, even when I know I should.
And so, amid a slowly disintegrating relationship, heavy financial burdens, worries about my family and some of my friends, concerns about my future, and where I’ll have to settle, the last thing I want is to talk about it. You see, one of the benefits of keeping your worlds separated is that you also create safe havens, placid islands of ignorance. They bolster my spirits, recharge my battery and lighten my load. Why would I pollute that by talking about things, allowing the misery to boil over and infest other parts of my life? No, I’ll feel miserable on my own time. How about this; why don’t I try and keep my shit from your doorstep, and in return you try and keep yourself from making my shit worse?
So if you’re wondering why I’m not communicating with you any more, know that I tried and failed and that it didn’t seem to make either of us feel better about things, and that I’d rather go for some peace and quiet right now. Mindlessly trying over and over like I used to do is a thing of diminishing returns anyway, so unless we both make an effort to improve things – a consistent, cooperate effort, with equal enthusiasm and willingness – I’m not really going to try any more. At least until I can’t help but try again.
In cyberpunk fiction, the protagonist of the story goes on a journey to do what he feels he must. The difference between romantic fiction and cyberpunk fiction is that in romantic fiction, the protagonist finally realises who he is, overcomes his inner demons, transforms in who he was always meant to be, prevails and returns home. In cyberpunk, the protagonist finally realises what he is, has his better angels shouted down by his inner demons, transforms in what he was always meant to be, prevails, but can’t ever return home due to what he has become.
Edit: I didn’t actually mean for this to be a journal post to which people could openly reply. I have seen all the comments that were made, and I’ve read them, but I’m removing them because I wanted this post to remain as is. I do want to thank everyone for their comments, both on- as well as offline.