6 years ago, I tried to kill myself.
Well, kind of. I wanted to kill myself. I held the knife to my wrist and I pressed. I pressed as hard as I could. I held it there while angry tears ran down my face. I pressed it while people watched. While nobody tried to stop it. I wanted to press it in, split the skin, and watch it bleed.
But I couldn’t. No matter how badly I didn’t want to be alive, I also didn’t want to be dead. I never managed to pierce the skin. I ended up putting the knife in a wall and walking away.
It was the culmination of a lot of years of depression and running from things. From growing up bullied, to falling for women that never wanted to be with me, to my parents divorce, to being jobless and broke. I had never dealt with anything, ever. I just pushed it all away and let it pile up in whatever space I could find.
It never went away though. It was always there, jut like the depression. And when the depression started getting worse, I became intensely introspective. This led me to find all of the things I tried to run from, and they came spilling out. I couldn’t stop them. I was drowning in them. I had no idea what to do anymore. Everything was pain.
On the night I had the knife, I was at a party. There were probably about 20 people in a relatively small apartment, with a fairly even mix of men and women. Everything was normal for most of the night. I was drunk and being more sociable than normal. I had even had a bit of luck with one girl, but then she left. The night was starting to wind down and I watched as people kept pairing off. Everyone was finding someone to hook up with, which is cool, but I was alone… again.
I’m not sure why this was the night that that was too much for me. It had always happened that way. There was never anyone around that wanted me. Nothing has really changed in regards to that. It always hurts when I’m the one that ends up all alone, but it was never that bad. I don’t know if it was the alcohol, or the growing depression, or what, but this was the night.
I can’t even tell you where I got the knife or why I had it. It was just sort of there. I think we may have been fucking around with them and trying to throw them into a wall. I can’t be certain. I was drunk and that part is hazy.
After I put the knife in the wall, I went back in and, as far as I can remember, tried to sleep. I slept fitfully for a while and then called my mom to see if she could pick me up as I didn’t have a car at the time.
I didn’t see anyone from that night for nearly 6 months. I didn’t really realize it at the time, but this was the final straw in a break with reality. It had been happening for a while, but that was when it all finally happened. After that, I stopped going out. I didn’t see anyone for months and I barely left the house. I pretty much didn’t leave unless I was getting food. I spent as much time as possible on the computer playing stupid little games to distract myself from all of the stuff that had piled up. However, I’ve written about all of this before. I’ve just never recognized it as what it really was: a break from reality. I took time away from the world to deal with all of my shit.
I don’t write about this with sadness. I never felt an ounce of melancholy while writing this tonight. In fact, I’m feeling better than I have in a good week. For some reason though, this story felt like it needed out finally. I wasn’t necessarily hiding it, I just didn’t know how to frame it and express it. I’ve mentioned it and sort of written about it before, but never in detail. It was time for it though. Time for one last tale.
I think this is a good final post for this blog. I don’t really have much need for it anymore. I’ll blog again, but most likely not here. This was the journey out of my deepest depression. While the story isn’t over and there’s still much I need to work through, this phase of it is done. It is time to move on to other venues and outlets.
So thank you, and goodbye.
I dream of things I’ll never know
The way you feel in my arms
The taste of your lips on mine
The way you breathe in your sleep
The way you look at me and smile
All of the little fears you tell
All of the dreams you share
Sleep riddled words over breakfast
Hearty conversation at dinner
Confessions from a bottle of rum
Laughter from our favorite movies
Inside jokes and silly looks
I dream of these things
I think of these dreams
And I hurt
Because I know
You have these dreams too,
But not about me.
You are the one
Who never left
You are the one
Who never was
Of my mind
The only love
I’ve never known
People always have things to say about my being single.
“You’ll find someone soon!”
“It’ll happen when you least expect it.”
“You’re lucky, you don’t have to put up with _____.”
“God has a plan for you.”
They think they’re helping, but they aren’t. They don’t know. It’s also different than when they tell this to their friends that have just gotten out of a relationship. I’ve never had one and I long ago passed the age where you’re supposed to have at least some semblance of an idea of what goes into dating. The older I get, the more difficult it is. The more I’m supposed to know, and the stranger it is that I don’t.
I won’t meet someone soon. I don’t go out. I don’t talk to people. I have the same group of friends I’ve had since I was 12. I can barely hold a conversation with the person at the checkout, so how am I supposed to meet someone and start dating? And when you expect to die alone, how can you possibly expect it less?
The people that say I’m lucky because I don’t have to put up with whatever bullshit relationship issue they choose are just fucking morons. They don’t know what it’s like to be alone like I am. When they look at being single, what they see is the freedom to do what they want without anyone to hold them accountable. They think of the annoying things that their partner does. They don’t think of the pain that comes with it, the crushing emotional and spiritual pain. They don’t remember all of the small things their partner does; the small comforting touches, the kind looks, or the intimacy that they share. They aren’t thinking about what it’s like looking at their bed and knowing that, for the X00th day straight, they get to share it with nobody. They also do not realize that when they are alone, they have touches and lovers to remember; that I have none of those small comforts. When I close my eyes and think of the women I have loved, I have to remember that not a goddamned one of them felt the same for me, that I have continually sought woman that want nothing to do with me.
And, finally… God did have a plan for me and I’m pretty sure I fucked it away 9 years ago. I know what it was, and I fucking ran. I hated Him and I told Him to take His plan and fuck off. I wasn’t going to do what He wanted after all He had let happen to me. I was angry, and spiteful, and a stupid fucking child. I made my biggest mistake for petty grievances and I’ve suffered the consequences. It’s not rational, I know, but in spite of all I have seen and learned, I can’t shake my faith in a Higher Power. I know all of the logical reasoning against a Higher Power, but there’s still that voice at the back of my mind that says “But what if you’re wrong?”, and so I believe, even if I can’t yet bring myself to live it. And if I believe, then I have to accept that He has plans, and that there are pros and cons to following them. I can’t dwell on the what-ifs, but I can see where the path diverged.
I don’t write the long insightful posts anymore. I want to, but it’s not in me right now. I start them, but I never finish them because, oftentimes, they are just rehashings of the same things I’ve written about, which is not productive. Because of this, i have spent the last few months in a particularly introverted and introspective phase. I have been looking at all of this stuff, and I have been trying to deal with it.
Why do I need love? Why do I love those that will not love me? Why does this all hurt me so much? What can I do to change it?
I have also dealt with some of this in less than ideal ways. I mildly latched onto someone from my own history, whom I have known for years but has always just been around. Again, I knew nothing would come of it, but I felt that I needed someone to having feelings for, because I was hurting inside. There were a couple of very drunken nights were I found truth at the expense of what little dignity I had left. I pissed her off and creeped her out, but I think part of why it was her is because I knew that things would work out in the end, that they would go back to their old, awkward ways once I worked my shit out. And they are almost back there.
In the past few weeks I have finally, truly found that I am not ready. I saw it before, but I never understood it or knew it. It was always something abstract, but now it is concrete. I am still broken on a fundamental level. I still cannot love myself, not even a little. I actually quite actively hate who and what I am. I want it all to be different.
I also found that my attachment to women that will not love me comes from my unhappiness. I want, more than anything, to be happy. The reason I look to a relationship is because the only times in my life that I can remember being happy is when I had someone I cared for. My life outside of those scant few incidences is mired in depression, self-loathing, sadness, and anger. I have lived with depression all of my life, but the happy moments were those when I had someone. In them, I could find the love I can not show myself, even if they did not love me. I could see my love reflected in them, and I could be happy.
But this is not healthy for me. It is hiding from the issues. I’ve never dealt with my depression, just survived it as best I could, even when I almost could not. It has pervaded my life and run it for many years. I have put it off and tried to hide it at every turn. I don’t have a way to deal with it yet, but at least I am now aware of this.
All of this leads me to the knowledge and true understanding that a relationship will not solve anything for me, nor is it likely to be particularly healthy for me at this time. Knowing that does not make the pain of it less, but at least I know it. I still have the needs and desires, but now I can understand when they are misplaced and, more importantly, why. I still have no desire greater than a relationship, but I know that I need to put it away for now, until I’m in a better place. I don’t really want to though. It’s like giving up on your dreams. It fucking sucks.
So, now, I try to accept my current reality and figure out how best to deal with it; to fix it. I don’t know how, or even if I can fix what is wrong with me, but I have to try. There is a distinct possibility that the condition is permanent, and that I will never have what it is I desire most, but I have to try and put off that fear and focus on doing what I can. I have no plan. I have no idea of where to start. I just know I must.
When I wake up in the morning,
I lie in bed for an hour,
Our maybe just a half
I close my eyes
And let my mind wander
And I dream
Or maybe even you.
And in this time,
I am not alone
As long as my eyes are closed
I am not alone.
It hurts when I must
My eyes open
And reality seeps in
No longer can I hide
No longer am I loved
For you are not here
And my life,
Just as my bed,
But for me
I would give
What little I have
For my dreams
To come real
If even for just an hour
And auburn locks,
A smile that gently mocks
A beautiful body,
Demure but naughty,
She shares it humbly
The beautiful nerd,
She knows every word,
To every movie I’ve heard
I would hold her close,
Kiss her on the nose,
And listen to her woes
Perfection in my eyes,
Believing all the lies,
Ignoring all it implies
When reality must invade,
All those thoughts I forbade
She is nothing like what I made
For in all reality,
Her and I would never be,
As there is no one left for me.
I just wanted something pretty,
Unadulterated and full of beauty,
But everything for me was broken and shitty.
I think that this is as close to a love song as I can get for now. No matter how I start it, it always comes back to being hurt. It shouldn’t be surprising, really. Every almost relationship I’ve ever had has ended in pain. I can’t seem to stop it unless I never start it, but the loneliness of that is worse than any hurt I have ever felt at the leaving of someone I cared for.
Although, starting is just as difficult. I have trouble going up to anyone. When I try to, I feel that I am offending them by even showing an interest, which says a lot about my self-esteem and how I view myself.
Always on the outside,
Forever looking in.
Withholding who I am,
And holding it within.
Words press against my lips,
Like an insect in its shell.
Rotting in my mouth,
And condemning me to hell.
I cut myself open,
Hoping to let them out.
But all that comes forth,
Is blood and doubt.
I do not know my fate,
But I know it’s not with you.
So I search and dig for hope
Through my jaded world view.
Wondering, is pain all I have,
Or is there something more?
If this is all there is,
What do I hold onto it for?
I have to find the strength,
To overcome my fears,
To slay these demons,
To step past these tears.
For the hope of something more
Is greater than the pain of nothing left
So I struggle on
Heartbroken and bereft.
I know that I could love you
With the passion of a thousand poets
But I keep it all to myself
I would paint you a thousand pictures
Perfect and beautiful
To capture every part of you
I would write you a thousand love songs
Romantic and pure
To let you know you are loved
But all of my words turn to dust
Catching in my throat
And keeping the words from you
So I hold it all in,
Knowing that the joy of your presence
Is better than the pain of your denial
But my love is unrequited
Misplaced and hurting
Poisoning everything between us
Because you cannot do the same
I will always love you more
Than you will ever like me
One thing I have realized lately is that while I do not bond easily with people, the bonds I do develop are very deep. I don’t get into friendships (or more) easily, but when I do I go all the way in. So when I develop a crush, it is very strong. Thus, if it has to end, it is very painful. I have to dig out a very deep and sensitive tendril that burrowed deep into my heart and there is nothing but pain in it. After a while, the majority of it is out and I’m just left trying to excise the little bits that shot off from the main tendril and dug in deeper than the rest. Sometimes they’ll wriggle and painfully let me know they’re still there. Other times, I’ll come across one and see its atrophy and remove it painlessly.
But, no matter how hard I try, each and every one of them left at least a single barb in there that I can’t get at. It’s in the deepest parts of my heart. The section I can’t cut into without destroying intrinsic parts of myself. So, they’ll always be there; occasionally reminding me of each of your faces, your smiles, and your names. Because no matter how much I hurt afterwards, I did love you for a time and I cannot forget that.
I torture myself with every word
Those said and those unspoken
Looking for the meaning behind them
Laying myself open to their truth
I bathe myself in it
Seeking those things that hurt
Just so that I can feel
Just to avoid the emptiness
Numb for years and years
Looking for solace in anything
I cut myself upon the words
Seeking respite in the pain
I hold it close to my heart
Seething and burning
Worn like a cursed saint
My maleficent protector
When there is nothing but pain
The violence escalates
Feeding on itself
And breeding its filth
Corroding and consuming
Eradicating and extirpating
Destroying everything it touches
Until I am empty again
Where once I found perverted solace
There is abject nothingness
And the cycle ends
Waiting to begin again
I would give it all to you
If I thought you could handle it
If I thought you could survive
But you are not my salvation
I never asked for any of this
I just wanted to be normal
Instead I found comfort in pain
And gave it everything I was
I do not seek your ruin
The way you seek mine
I’ll destroy myself soon enough
With your help or without
Do I go on
Or does it end here
Where do I find the will
To choose one or the other
Do you ever spare a thought,
For the one you forgot,
Do I cross your mind,
With a thought unkind,
Or am I left behind?
But I know I do not,
For in everything I sought,
I knew it was all for naught.
Because I can see,
That it’s not me,
And we will never be.
No matter what I do,
Nor how much good I sew,
It is not enough for you.
I want to stop writing to you, or you, or even you. It’s pathetic at this point. There’s nothing but pain and sadness in the words I can give to you, for that is all you’ve given me.
I want to write to Her. I know there is something happy to write about there. Even if she turns out to be you, there will be a period of happy things to write. I expect to die alone, so I very much look forward to those brief times when you are Her, even though I die each time She becomes you.
The words are on my tongue,
But they cannot pass my lips.
I try to speak my peace,
But my brain says cease.
I only wish to express,
The things I cannot confess.
How I burn for you,
Or how I love the things you do.
A feeling started too young,
And dreams of things undone.
I kept you away where I could see,
Hoping one day you and I could be.
Now that day has come,
And I can’t get it begun.
So I bide my time again,
And wish for a time unseen.
You don’t read much about male body issues. I read a lot about body image issues, but it’s pretty much all written by females and for females. I can’t recall a single article I’ve ever read about male body image issues. It’s as if they don’t exist. The world is trying to get women to feel better about their bodies, but they’re pretty much ignoring the men. Women aren’t the only ones with body fears.
I have pretty serious body image issues. I mean, how could I not? Yes, I’m 6′ tall, but I weigh upwards of 550 pounds. Even when I weighed 350, I hated my body. Now, I wear pants with a 56″ waist. I wear size 5XLT shirts. There is literally no store in my town of 180,000 people that sells clothing in my size. There was, but it closed down last year. I have to buy my clothing online and I pay at least $40 for a single t-shirt, and that’s the cheapest item I buy. The selection is fucking horrible too. Women have an entire industry dedicated to making cute clothes for big girls. There is nothing of the sort for men. If you are over a 2XL, good fucking luck finding something cool to wear. Even the big & tall places think big guys only want to wear suits, button ups, or polos. I want to fucking wear geek wear. I want Star Wars and Deadpool, not plaid button-ups. You would think the comic book industry would understand this.
I only own 7 shirts. Not because I don’t want more, but because they are the only ones I could find that didn’t suck. I own one hoody. It’s literally the only one I could find, and they don’t make it anymore. Pants are easier to find, but they pretty much only want to make cargo pants, dress pants, or jeans. I’m not sure if that’s a universal thing though as even when I was less fat, I only wore Dickies pants and shorts. Really, they don’t make much clothing for big guys and that which they do make is super fucking expensive and not at all a style I want to wear.
This is about more than just clothes though. The US already hates fat people, but they seem to hate fat men the most… unless they’re funny. In media, the only fat men are either constantly shamed and the butt of all jokes, or they are the one making the jokes. John Goodman, Billy Gardell, Chris Farley, John Belushi, Ralphie May, Gabriel Iglesias. These are some of the very few positive male role models of size that I have. Of them all, Goodman is the only one that ever had anything other than funny roles. I realize that women don’t have many either, but they do have Oprah, Melissa McCarthy, Mo’Nique, Roseanne Barr, Mia Tyler (pretty sure there isn’t a SINGLE big male model…), and so many more. Big women in media still take shit for being big, but they are respected and don’t have to rely solely on how funny they are to get respect. They can get respect because of who they are, not how they act. And people stick up for them.
This is also evident in porn. There’s an entire and very large (no pun intended) genre of porn dedicated to large women. For the most part, they are not portrayed as disgusting or gross and are even referred to as “Big Beautiful Women” (BBW). There’s really no corresponding genre for men (I’ve looked). Yes, porn is directed at men, but there’s really no representation of big men in porn. If they are there, it is purely for ridicule and disgrace. The men in porn are almost always muscular, or at the very least, skinny. Even the creepy ones aren’t fat.
Men don’t take as much crap in the media for being big though, so that could help explain why there is less talk about body issues with men. Men are generally allowed a bit more “wiggle” room in their size. The acceptable size for men is a bit larger than it is for women. That doesn’t mean all sizes are accepted though. If you’re exceptionally large (as in, not just 15-25 lbs overweight), you’re probably going to get dirty looks because of your size. I know women go through this as well, but they have support. They have people that speak out for them and help to change this perception. Men don’t really have support like that.
Women, now, are taught to embrace their body. That all types are okay and that you should not feel shame for your body type. Guys don’t really get that. Nobody really talks about our bodies. There are no blogs dedicated to making us all feel as though we are normal. There are no photography exhibits showing off all of the different sizes of men or nationwide commercials saying that real men have curves. Society says that men do not have issues with their body image. They deal with personality but ignore that our bodies affect us the way that a woman’s body affects her. Men are not supposed to have body issues. That’s a woman issue.
In the end, I’m not trying to say that women have it easier. Not at all. Our society is still gender-biased towards males. I know that this issue is difficult for both sexes. What I am trying to say though, is that men do not have the support that women have. If you are not a physically fit alpha male trying to dominate everything in sight, you are not considered at all. If you have issues with how you look you’re told to suck it up because nobody cares.
Or, I could be completely off with all of this and I just haven’t looked hard enough/don’t know where to look. I don’t know. I just know that as I wrote this blog and read others about body issues, I felt very alone as a big man having issues with his size. Because of that, I lashed out some. I know that women have it rough as well, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get to be upset about this either.
Your version of single is very different than mine. When you look back, you look back with knowing and understanding. You look back and you get to remember those past relationships that you had, even though they failed.
Me? I get to look back and remember my fuck ups. I look back and hear “oh man! Do you remember her? That was one of the ones you fell in love with! But do you remember what she thought it was? She just thought you two were really good friends. She said you were like her brother, you dumb sack of shit! Her brother! Ha! How could you not see she didn’t feel the same way? Idiot!”
There are no truly happy memories for me. All of my relationships weren’t, even when I thought they were. No matter what I thought, it was always wrong. They never called me boyfriend or thought of me as anything other than friend. For whatever reason, I wasn’t good enough to be that for them, not even when they told me things they didn’t tell their boyfriends. I was always on the outside looking in.
Your version of single is a separation. You are in between relationships. Maybe you’re actually looking forward to it because you haven’t been “just you” in a while. You’ve been here before and you’re pretty sure it will change soon enough.
For me, it’s a void. It is a complete and utter lack of anything. I don’t know if it will ever end. I never even wanted this, I just have to survive it.
You wonder who the next one will be. I wonder if I’m going to die alone eating lead.
It’s kind of hard to accept that I was pity fucked. It’s degrading. She didn’t have any sort of interest in me, she just did it because she felt bad.
All I can really think to say here is “I wanted to feel pretty”, which is kind of absurd to think as a male, but it’s mostly true. I wanted to feel desired, like I fucking mattered.
I felt nothing like that. I could tell she was bored. That hurt. She didn’t even really try to make it seem like she cared, although she certainly fucking loved it when I ate her out. She didn’t really seem to care whether I liked it or not.
It hurts. It was my first time and it was degrading. I enjoyed it in the moment, but it has only caused me more issues. It wasn’t what I wanted. Not fully. I did want sex, but I didn’t want meaningless sex. I wanted something special, something I could remember fondly. What I got was… I don’t know, but it certainly wasn’t what I wanted.
The journey I sought was not one of worldly adventure. I didn’t want to travel the world and see the wonders of the world. I didn’t want to climb Everest or go on safari in Africa. I didn’t want to see the pyramids or visit the wailing wall. I never wanted to jump out of a plane or off a building.
The journey I sought was very different. I wanted to spend my entire life getting to know somebody. I wanted to live with her and love her. I wanted to start a family and have children. I wanted a house with a garage where I could work on cars. I wanted love, and that was all.
The journey I got was nothing like either of those. I ran from my fears and struggled to make it this far. I fell so far that suicide was an option I considered. I took the dark rode, the one you never want to see. I didn’t mean to. I ran, and I got lost.
The journey I have now is one of rebuilding. I’m trying to put the pieces back together, those that got broken on the way and those that were always broken. It’s a long journey and it isn’t easy. There’s still much left to rebuild though.
I turn 27 today. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I’ve typed about 8 different blogs out so far. I really don’t know how to shape this one. I already did an end of year ‘What Happened in My Life’ post, so that’s out. Yes, it makes more sense to do on my birthday, but I already did it so I’ll skip it now.
Getting older always reminds me of my fears. I’ve worked on some, but most are still there. I’m no longer terrified of leaving my house, but I still have issues in social situations. I put myself out there and fell for someone again, and while that did blow up in my face, it didn’t drive me as deep and dark as it has in the past.
I don’t write about it much anymore, but my fear of dying alone has never left me, I just don’t focus on it as much anymore. I don’t always have time. But, on the day when I am definitively older – to the point of increasing the number that is stated when asked my age – it is hard to ignore this particular fear. It will never leave me until I have proof of other outcomes. I had always known I would have sex at least once, so that didn’t do a single thing to change my fears. If anything, it cemented them. Yes, someone was willing to have sex with me, but she didn’t want anything to do with me in the ways that I need. She wanted friendship and I do not need friends. At least, not from someone I want to know in a more intimate way. I’ve got a lot of friends, but there is nobody in this world that I am aware of that wants anything more from me. And knowing that hurts. It hurts so fucking much.
I wish this fear would go away, but I cannot shake it. It has been with me longer than I can remember. I want to be done with it, but I don’t know how to excise it. I can ignore it most days, but it is always there on some level.
I don’t know where I was/am going with this. In spite of all that I wrote above, this year has been good to me. Yes, I got fired and I was broken hearted, but I’ve been working on a lot of stuff and getting myself right for once. In all, I was happy this year. I haven’t been able to say that in a long time. I’m still pretty fucked up, but it doesn’t seem as bad as it was before.
I don’t fucking know. So much for an awesome birthday post. Instead, I bawled my eyes out and lost my way in the middle. I’m such a mess. haha At least now, when I laugh at that, it’s in a joking ‘oh, you!’ kind of way rather than a sardonic ‘You stupid little fuck up’ kind of way. I’m still not where I want to be, but I’m working on it.
26 was for working on things and getting past stuff. I started a lot of things last year, I hope to see them start paying off during 27. I have hope that 27 will be a good year. I don’t think it will be the one I am hoping for, but I think it will lead to it. I’ll not find what I am looking for just yet, but I think by the end of it I will be closer to finding it. 26 was good, but 27 will be better.
It’s a bit fucked up how excited I get when my favorite bands have new albums out and I get to listen to them. Right now, I’m listening to How I learned to Stop Giving a Shit and Love Mindless Self Indulgence by MSI and it’s better than the first time I had sex. I’m pretty sure this is what love feels like. My pulse is racing, my face is flush, there’s a grin on my face that won’t leave, and I want nothing more than to spend all of my time with it. I am excited about all of the twists and turns that the music will provide in its playing. And it will change every time I listen to it. It will grow and I will love it more, even if it doesn’t excite me as much as it used to. Eventually, it will be comfortable and I will listen to it until I know everything about it, but I will always find new things in it. Even if I move onto other things, I will always be able to return to it and enjoy it and love it again.
I suppose none of that is fucked up. What’s fucked up is that I have had more meaningful relationships with albums than I have ever had with a woman. Music has never hurt me the way that they have. It has never told me it just wanted to be friends, that I was too weird, that it just wasn’t interested. Music has provided me more emotional support as well. It has helped me through every heartache and painful moment. Music has never left me either.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Alternatively: Why can’t I find someone that won’t hurt me?
It didn’t matter
That I was sad,
That I was lonely.
Because YOU were happy.
It didn’t matter
That I was in pain,
That I cried myself to sleep.
Because YOU were happy.
It didn’t matter
That I hurt myself,
That I cut my flesh.
Because YOU were happy.
It didn’t matter
That I wanted to kill myself,
That I was ready to say goodbye.
Because YOU were happy.
It didn’t matter
That I had to hide this from you,
That I couldn’t tell you about it.
Because YOU were happy.
But it fucking mattered
That you didn’t see me,
That you didn’t care about me.
Because I wasn’t happy.
I wasn’t happy…
I’ve been rewatching the first season of How I Met Your Mother recently. I’ve watched this show since the first season aired live. I fell in love with it pretty much instantly and have watched it near religiously ever since.
In watching it again, I see why I fell in love with it. That first season was powerful. From the initial date with Robin and Lily and Marshall getting engaged, to Ted finding Victoria and how beautiful that relationship was. I always wanted that relationship to work and it broke my heart when it didn’t.
That love for the show was cemented in the first season finale, with the end of Lily and Marshall and the final connection of Robin and Ted. One of the most beautiful and heart-wrenching moments in modern television is Lily in tears yelling ‘PAUSE!’ and climbing Marshall to kiss him. In that moment, she loved him with everything she was, but she knew she had to go and couldn’t let go just yet. That was the first time I ever cried watching a TV show. They were perfect, but they broke up anyways. You knew it when it happened, but you still hoped it wouldn’t happen.
This show has been my current ideal of love for much of my adult life. It replaced that which was shattered when my parents divorced. It seems silly, as it is just a show, but it’s pretty easy to emotionally connect to the characters of a show when you don’t have that in your real life. So, I have unknowingly clung to it as a romantic ideal, as though one day, maybe, I might get to experience some of the stuff Ted went through and eventually have a grand tale of how I met my wife. I want it, but I know better.
The thing that sucks is knowing that all of the grand and magically romantic moments that Ted creates throughout the series are not real. Love doesn’t happen like that in real life. You can’t make it rain to convince someone to date you. You don’t get the girl after being denied and staying friends. Sure, it looks awesome on TV, but the reality is that when you get shot down, you tend to stay there, no matter what you do. It sounds cheesy, but I want that kind of grand romanticism, but I know that it isn’t real. I know that even if I tried it, it wouldn’t work. Nobody wants that from me. All it’d do is kill the friendship.
I’d put the effort in, if I thought it might change things. I’ve been taught otherwise though.
I’m sorry things got weird. We had a connection, I thought that meant it might lead to something more than friendship. The movies lied to me, they told me that’s how it works. They don’t bother telling me that most times, it doesn’t mean anything.
How was I supposed to know otherwise? Nobody told me that part. You just seemed like an awesome chick and we got along so well, so I thought we could be more than friends. I didn’t mean to make it awkward, I just didn’t want to be alone anymore.
I got confused. Nobody ever listens to me, so when you did, I thought it was because you liked me back. My friends never treated me that way, so I missed the cues. It didn’t help that you’re flirty, but I should’ve known it didn’t mean anything, it never does. I should’ve known I wasn’t special to you.
I still think about you; wonder how you are. I could ask, but it hurts to talk to you. I’ve gotten better about not looking at your Facebook profile, and I deleted the pictures you sent. I wish we could still be in each others lives, but I’m too ashamed of how it ended and too hurt by the loss. Maybe another time, but not now.
Goodbye, and remember that I cared for you once.
I really should know better than to think something good might happen without me busting my ass. Why would that happen? If I want something I have to bust my ass for it. I always seem to forget that when it seems like something good might happen though. I want to hope for the best and it always gets me when reality sets in.
I thought I was going to be able to buy a car, get a new computer. I was so wrong. I did get a new phone, some new clothes, and a few comfort items, but I’m still without the major items that I want/need.
What I really thought I was getting was a reprieve from years of struggling just to make ends meet. I’ve had a job for about 2 years now and I’m still struggling just to get out of these holes. I know that’s not all that long, but it feels like forever. I just wanted one bright spot where I could say that things finally turned around.
It’s rough seeing people around me in their mid to late 20s that have their shit together, doing whatever they like. Dating; living on their own; getting married; having kids; buying cars, houses, toys, whatever. I’m living with my mother, struggling to pay my bills and doing it all on my own. I don’t get to live rent free with my parents like so man others do. I haven’t had a car in 6 years. That has meant foregoing a lot of things because I can’t fucking get there.
I’ve been stuck here for a long time. It’s easy to overlook how much a car means until you have to rely on others to help get you around. I can’t go shopping unless my mom is home and lets me take her car. I can’t go out with my friends unless someone is willing to pick me up. I can’t go out and drive around just because I want to. I can’t just run up to this or that on a whim. I have to plan everything if I want to go out because I need to know how I will get there and how I will get home because I can’t just drive on a moment’s notice. It is very isolating, which is rough. Yes, I am a solitary creature by nature but it isn’t easy being forced into it because I can’t get anywhere. I can’t go to people and people choose not to call me when they do stuff because they know I can’t get there and they don’t want to pick me up (which is fine, it’s their choice and I’m not going to be upset with them for not wanting to pick me up, I wouldn’t want to either).
I’m doing a bit of boo-hooing, but, really, I’m still a bit further ahead than I was 3 months ago. It just sucks thinking I’ll be able to actually get somewhere and then have it taken from me. I’ll get there eventually by working my ass off, it just would’ve been nice to skip 2+ more years of struggle.
It just fucking sucks being poor.
I’ve been thinking about language. Language is a living and changing thing. It changes slowly, but it does change. Based upon how the majority of speakers of a language use words some fall into disuse, change meaning, change spelling, or any number of other things. Gay is not used to mean happy anymore. Nobody says gadzooks (Chrome doesn’t even recognize it as a real word). Encyclopedia lost its æ. ‘You and me’ is now accepted in place of ‘you and I’. Words change. Language evolves, but not always for the better.
The thing I have been thinking of most is words changing spelling. Specifically, does this change happen because people can’t spell words? Will ‘your’ one day be an acceptable form of ‘you are’? Are contractions now just accepted as whole words rather than a mash up of two other words? WTF has entered the lexicon as a word (of sorts) that expresses an emotion or reaction far more than actual expression of ‘what the fuck’. What is our language becoming? Will we recognize it when we are old?
The grammar nazis are losing. Intelligence is dying. Unless we actually choose to turn away from it and celebrate intelligence, grammar, and proper use of words, our language and our society is fucked. Newspeak for all! I wonder how George Orwell would feel knowing that we are moving ever closer to his satirized language. I think he would be disappointed, I know I am.
People like to tell me they wish they didn’t have anyone, like I don’t. They don’t really know what they’re talking about though. Even if they were single, they wouldn’t be alone like I am. When they’re cold and alone in the dark, they’ll have past relationships to look back on and give them hope and warmth for the future. When it’s me, all I have to think of is the times I got things mixed up and fell in love with women that didn’t want anything from me. When I close my eyes, I don’t get to think of happy times with someone I loved.
They don’t want that. They want to be unencumbered. They want to be able to do whatever they want whenever they want without answering to someone. Except, that isn’t what it is like. Yeah, I don’t have to be accountable to a significant other, but there is always someone that will want me to account for things. A boss, a family member, a friend. And the freedom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I mostly spend my time doing nothing to distract myself from everything.
They want out, and I want in. I’d gladly trade places.