(Un)healthy relationships

I often question whether I'm doing the right thing in a relationship, especially in the earlier stages. I don't know when I'm texting too much or too little, I start to question everything I said when there's a slightly slow response and worst of all, I swing between telling myself to not care and caring too much. Glueing my eyes to this ironically inconsistent metronome feels like nothing more than my brain forcibly detaching me from everything around me while simultaneously craving this level of affection. This lamentable and grievous oxymoron is deplorable.

One thing I struggle with, and this is not just my own opinion but the opinion of all previous partners, is emotional openness. I struggle a lot with recognising and differentiating my emotions. This in turn makes me feel inadequate as person, that I'm not worth being with, so I shut it up and out. This of course doesn't work, it builds up, breaks me down, but what the fuck else can I do? If the option to shoot myself and rely on someone else was presented to me, I would make my decision faster than I could pull the trigger. It's not that I don't trust people, I just don't think I trust myself. Actually, I think it's more accurate to say that I don't trust the people around me to run away.

I sometimes picture myself in a cinema, sitting alone in the dark room, watching my life pass by on the projector, not in control, but just a spectator. I used to laugh when something humourous happened, cry with sadness, jump in my seat at scary things, throw popcorn at the screen out of anger because of the "main character's" stupid decisions. Now, I just kinda watch passively, sporadic bits of popcorn around, empty soda cups and popcorn buckets surrounding the seats around me. Nobody will cleaning this except for myself, but I can't get up.

Maybe I'll get around to cleaning up someday. Hopefully. I don't want to drown in my own garbage.

A self-made and self-lost maze

I fear losing interest in things I care about every day. I fear that I will lose interest in my hobbies, goals, friends, and partner. I know it has happened before and I don’t want it to happen again. I used to love writing. I loved pouring my heart into what I wrote, finding ways to hide small details in my work, and most of all, I loved getting praised for my work. It always made me happy. At least, it used to. Now, I struggle with writing stories. Metaphors used to spring like dandelions, now they roll away like tumbleweeds. Both natural, yet one is beautiful, the other… not so much.

I might meet up with a friend who I haven’t seen in a long time, and who I may not see again in several years, and I fear that the time will grow dull. We talk every day and they recently told me that, when talking with me, they could almost think as if they were alone, that was the first time in a while I almost cried. I don’t think they understand how much that meant to me. But even with all of this, I fear that they will realise that I am nothing but a withered version of who I used to be. I fear that as much as I will lose interest in my hobbies, they will lose interest in me.

Turns out that is medically referred to as anhedonia, which is of course a sign of depression. Although I doubt the neon sign is necessary, I do in fact struggle with depression. That is neither a call for help nor is it self-deprecation taking over. It is the person who I am.

I often find myself curled up in bed, feeling distraught as the stress of living crashes over me, wave after wave. Every night I wish to cry, and yet the tears cannot find their way out.

I am Daedalus, the creator of the maze and the minotaur, the creature forever forced to wander the corridors. I fear the day I may find my way out. I fear the day when I will see sunlight again. What if the rays are not as radiant as I once thought? What will I do then? Will I accept the fading pastel colours or will I return to my maze? Will I turn around and realise that the maze never existed, that I only convinced myself of its existence because I could not bear the truth?

Being okay with silence

Unlike the previous post, I'm unfortunately fully awake for this, and I've decided to make it everyone else's problem by writing this.

I've always had a, not-good-not-bad relationship with my mother. Don't get me wrong, she's always tried to do what she could, and I love her dearly for it. However we have always been different in terms of personality. I prefer silence while my mother enjoys the same topics of conversation. I try to live with the idea of "if I have nothing interesting to add, then I'll keep quiet." This has often resulted in a few spats here and there about how I'm "too quiet at meals" or "rarely ever speak".

I can't really help it. My days are mostly repetitious so I have nothing to say. I enjoy silence. I enjoy listening to the white noise created by the world. I don't enjoy the constant sound of cars and chattering of people. I don't like sound of clashing voices at family gatherings. I've had times where I've wanted to run.

On the other hand, I hate the silence that comes with being alone. If I'm studying or playing a game, I almost always have a video of some kind playing in the background. If I'm working or using public transport, I'm always listening to music.

I don't know how to describe it properly. I've previously attempted to explain it as being afraid of my own thoughts, but at the same time, it's a comfort. I can't fall asleep without listening to something, or at least it takes significantly longer.

Unlike what I've said, I'm not always okay with silence, sometimes I just want to run from it.

I don't even know if there was a point to all of this. Silence can be comforting and horrifying. It's up to you to decide when and where it is.

If you're my friend and you read this, I hope you're either proud or disappointed in my life choices.

Socialisation and friends

When I was younger, I really wasn’t that socially active. I had a hard time making connections with those around me, and back then I used to blame the people around me, but it was never really their fault. I was stand-offish, easily agitated, didn’t really have a good understanding of social cues, and just a deeply unfounded superiority complex because I didn’t smoke or drink like the majority did. Looking back, I was just a little cunt.

When I started attending IB (high-school, I think I’m not American and converting the school levels are too much of a pain in the arse) I was quickly ‘adopted’ by a classmate, and through a cascade of domino effects, I got through my 3 years with several friends, some better than others, and some who I am happily looking forward to them passing away. But that’s a story for another time.

Now, I’m a guy, straight, all that jazz, always have been. I had always joked about how most of my friends were girls. A lot of people from different classes even assumed I was gay because I was in friend group where it was me, one other guy, and then 8 girls. I never really thought too much of why I chose to surround myself with mostly girls, while there were only 8 guys in a class of 35, I didn’t really talk much with the other guys. They were decent people, don’t get me wrong. From my brief interactions with them during classes and outside of it, even when I occasionally tried to hang out with them for example at parties. Bit too loud for my taste, but for those who know me, that really isn’t too much of a shock.

The problem I had with them stemmed elsewhere. Not just my male classmates in particular, but just most guys I’ve met. They always tend to try and one-up each other. At some point it just becomes exhausting. It always devolved into who could do what the best, and for someone who had and still has very little self-worth, the increase in obnoxiousness became nauseating. I have never considered killing someone as much as I did that evening.

“Well, what did you enjoy so much about having girl friends rather than guy friends, huh?” Thank you for asking, little voice in the back of my head whom I should really get checked at a doctor. I enjoyed just talking. I enjoyed how caring for each other was actually seen as something positive.

A good example was when one of our friends had a lot more to drink than she could handle, like I am talking to the point where her room had to be napalmed with bleach the day after. I worry a lot about my friends, so when that happened, I was concerned that she was just gonna be thrown into her room and left alone, but no. Myself and two others stayed up till 4am in her room to make sure she was okay.

I should probably note, I’m not trying to generalise. These are my own experiences, and the conclusions that I’ve drawn about the people that I’ve met. I have also met people that directly contradict my conclusions. Nothing is set in stone. People choose who they want to be.

I don’t even know if there was a point to all of this. Do better, be there for your friends, take care of them. You don’t know how long you’ll have them.

If you’re my friend and you read this, I hope you’re either proud or disappointed in my life choices.