My disillusion is complete.
This is not a rant or diatribe. Simply a statement of fact. I am to tired of defending my existence to people. Or fighting for the little bit of ledge I stand on. I cannot justify my life to anyone any more.
As Popeye says “I am what I am.” or maybe Kurt Cobain said it more succinctly when he wrote “What else could I be? All apologies.”
My mother said to me about a year ago the most truthful and sincere thing she ever told me, that was “I know you never had a chance, you never got a break. And I am sorry.”
If I am broken it is because I was born wired to feel, to sense and know about emotion and tactile sensation. But then I was thrown to the wolves and told to fight my way out. I was given what in any other life would amount to gifts. Intelligence, empathy and sensitivity. But the life I was presented with made them a curse.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am not whining as an adult about a childhood hurt. In fact I don’t really blame my childhood. Or my parents. They did the best they could. My old man was a bastard and tough to live with, but he was a better man, a more honest man than 99% of you. He knew loyalty. He knew what being blood meant. He never turned his back on someone who needed. My mother was what she was. She was a kid when I was born and if she was older I think maybe she would have made different choices. But she did the best she could with what she had.
But what I am saying is life is a chain and if you start off twisting them links, then it just gets worse and worse as it goes. I had to be born running and never had time or space to figure out your rules or your language. While you were learning about the bullshit niceties and etiquette that govern your world and your acceptance of those in it I was ducking and covering just to get through.
And by the time I broke off on my own I was no more prepared to live in your world then a child raised by wolves. I could tear your fucking throat out. But I couldn’t tell you why I needed to. In a fight there’s very few men who can beat me. But I can’t for the life of me figure how to be a friend. And I can make a woman love me. I just can’t keep them there. The romantic beast, man/child is never as sweet as the Disney version. And there is never a happy ever after.
So I grew more distant. More skittish and more baffled by you. In fact if I am confusing to you can you imagine how scary and confusing to me you are?
And you speak of friendship, you speak of love. You talk about a new life. You tell me it’s all going to change.
But hey let me ask you. When was the last time you called just to say hello? When did you invite me to just go for coffee? Tell me about the last time you let me know you were thinking of me when you knew I was struggling? Now I can roll it over to you and say “See fucks, you failed!” and get angry and hateful. But I think I blame me. I figure I am probably unlikable and loving a person like me is too much work. Lip service aside, the work needed to get near me is probably not worth the finished product. And I don’t say that feeling sorry for myself. It’s just honesty.
When you are not beautiful you know it, ugly is ugly even to itself. There are many who try to compensate for it with anything they can. Mostly their own dignity and self-worth. But a guy like me has nothing to give you. So there is no trade to make. So people lose interest, it’s the payoff man. This machine ain’t paying off. Move to another. Put your money in it and hope it rings JACKPOT!
Life is what it is. I know that. I have seen what it can do to those who ends up on the dark side of the moon. I know about the death and decay. I know about the soul killing hours and the lonesome edges of your life. Standing on a street corner all alone watching you go to your families and friends. I know about the wanting so badly to just have somewhere to belong.
Whatever it all means doesn’t matter. Not to you really. You’ll read this and forget it in 15 minutes and move on. Your busy life. You cannot afford to care except between the hours of 9 to 5. After that it’s all booked. And were I to reach out to you. Well I guess I might oblige you to respond. But I would end up feeling like a rude interruption and like I should apologize.
So I’m done with it all. I cannot get of the stool for the next round. Ring the bell all you want, I am beat. A good fighter knows enough to stay down and not keep taking a beating, there is nothing in it. It’s not going to turn, there will be no second wind or miracle win. A beaten man is just beat.
This is a time of year when people come together and try to celebrate. When they experience family and joy. But it’s also a time where people like me force themselves through. Where every loss and every absence is more painful.
Somewhere there is a door and I am going to find it.