I’ve been called many things since my inception onto this planet. Son, Friend, Faggot, Lover, Boyfriend, Pussy, Partner, Father, Monster, Giving, Intelligent, Retarded, Douche, Husband, Ex, Geek, Nerd, Narcissist, Borderline, Gay, Selfless.
I’ve been watching Westworld lately with Amanda. A major theme is self-discovery, what lies within. The show also deals with our inability to quantify consciousness, the self. Our cornerstones and backstories, which ground us and give us an identity.
There’s always so much I leave unsaid for the fear of what others may think of me. For the caution that what you share can be used against you in some way. I also feel a need to defend myself, for I often think of who could be reading my blog.
Truth be told, people are most often more interested in their own lives to give concern to what other people are doing. This all still often weighs heavily on me. I’ve written, deleted and have been flippant on what I share. It really doesn’t make sense, why the paranoia?
I’ve always lived somewhat of an isolationist lifestyle. Unless I push myself, I don’t seem to naturally seek out and build friendships with others. There are some exceptions, but on the whole, I keep a distance from most people.
Which is a shame in a way, as I really do enjoy people. People that I’ve grown close to marvel that I call myself an introvert.
It’s a facade in a way. I’ve worked in customer service and have had too much personalization and empathy training not to do well with others. I remind myself during the course of a conversation to exhibit active listening skills, to ask questions to express interest.
To express empathy and try to find similar experiences in my life to share. I try to provide well-balanced advise if I were in their shoes. To put forth considerable problem-solving skills to lend a hand.
I find myself going too far and people pleasing, agreeing to do things that I really don’t want to do. I continue feeding into it with guilt; like I owe them something; like I need to atone for my existence.
I then usually end up becoming self-destructive and push people away. I self-loathe. I regret. I go back into my shell and isolate.
I think that the nicest thing that Aly said to me is that I’m excellent at self-diagnosis. Every time I walk into a therapist’s office, I end up taking the floor and providing a detailed accounting of my patterns, the source of them, what they mean, and how to break free from them.
Little nudges here and there to account for my biased perceptions is the mark of a good therapist or at least one that I will benefit from.
Something that weighs on me that I still think about is being called a Narcissist.
Narcissist: A disorder in which a person has an inflated sense of self-importance.
“Despite having a seemingly strong personality, narcissists lack a core self. Their self-image and thinking and behavior are other-oriented in order to stabilize and validate their self-esteem and fragile, fragmented self.”
Hmm. I don’t know. I can say that with a conviction that I certainly have some traits, some stronger than others. I also believe that expressions can often be circumstantial. I think that there’s this notion in the social sense to shallowly apply labels to others for lack of genuine understanding, in an effort to better perceive the world around us.
But doing so isn’t inherently wrong. We have to, there’s no way to jump inside someone’s skin and gain true perspective into the other. At most, we are afforded a peephole into the other; but even then, assumptions must be made.
In truth, I’m not sure why these intrusive thoughts keep replaying in my mind. What’s the evolutionary survival benefit here, brain?
Is it that it’s trying to protect me from falling into much of the same situation? Is that I still quite can’t quite account for my past emotional state and quantify it? Just what made me so infatuated, obsessed?
Given the chance, I’d do it all over again; if such was necessary to collect these series of experiences. While something inside of me shattered, another part of me grown. I can’t quite explain it, but I’m pretty much cured of my intense anxiety, agoraphobia issues.
I still get anxious now and again, I know my triggers (being tired, too much caffeine), but most generally I have a genuine sense of feeling free. If not for lack of planning or rest, there is nothing holding me back from jumping in the truck right now and dragging my RV anywhere I’d like to go.
I don’t care how much pain, suffering I’d have to go through to get to this point again in life and for whatever bizarre reason, my recent history played a part in it. I’m thankful in some way, even if it still hurts sometimes.
That’s the beauty of life though, right? That out of the ether, we exist and can experience so much. No one is trapped into who they are and every day we awake to a fresh start. This sounds cliche, but we really don’t have any other choice than to start again new every day.
It’s really hard for me to hate people. It’s even harder to be hated. Considering my childhood and upbringing, you’d think I’d be used to it.
Yet, I still have a need to sometimes wake up at 3 am and mash keys into a keyboard because I overflow and feel too much. Or maybe I was awakened by Amanda’s snoring (she has a cold) which sounded just like a power drill with every inhale. Which led to a dream of trying desperately to remove batteries from power tools around the house to stop the noise.
Or maybe it’s that I shouldn’t go through my historical photo library when half asleep, awakened by a nightmare.
Nietzsche was approaching a radical but properly constructive question: what’s the point of thinking about the past? His answer was precise: we should remember only in so far as it actually helps us to live in the present. To the extent that memories assist us in forming our plans and avoiding error, they are valuable, but when memories function as obstacles to better lives, we should put our energies into the business of forgetting.