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agony, explained

January 19, 2015

I had a hopeful dream last night, that I intended to be writing about, first thing. But something is bothering me, and the more I think about it, the more emotional agony I’m in. So I have to write about that first.

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I mailed something across the world, with joy and hope not just felt, but illustrated. And it may have arrived, but no one cares enough to tell me. Even though two separate people assured me they would tell me as soon as it arrived. Meanwhile some mail arrived, and maybe mine was in there, but it’s just not important to actually, you know, look.

Given the surrounding circumstances, I know saying anything to anyone else sounds unimaginably petty. So I haven’t said anything, and I won’t.

But emotionally, this circumstance hooks into one of the most painful memories I have. Something I would do almost anything to avoid ever even recall, never mind relive. And yet here I am, all unexpectedly.

I don’t think there are enough spoons in the world for me to recount what actually happened. Which also, when I tried telling somebody (my mother) once, they immediately dismissed it as obviously all my fault for being an idiot, as if that would be comforting.

{If I can’t talk about it, what do I do now? What is there to write about?}

What I learned is: both when I am in emotional agony, and when I’m trying to make sense of it later, my feelings and lived experiences are stupid and worthless and no one wants to hear about them. Except to laugh at me for “being an idiot!”

Which happened with the other thing, the horrible traumatic thing when I was toddler. Huh.

Sometimes I hate that I was ever born. My parents should . . . not have had children.

I know I know, their parents mistreated them: they just passed down what they learned. But they could have tried to do better! They could have tried to not be assholes who traumatize their kids for life.

Oh wait, maybe it was only me who was traumatized for life. And everyone (but me) knows I don’t count. Because I’m an idiot! Problem solved.

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When I was lamenting on Twitter that I tend to approach friends and others with enthusiasm and interest. But sometimes I wait for friends to approach me — it’s their turn, and it’s so nice to feel worth someone else’s effort, so I wait. And I keep waiting. Because they never approach me. If I don’t do all the work, I never hear from them at all.

But when I approach them, with enthusiasm, they can return it. Why don’t they have it to approach me with?

A Twitter-friend said, speaking only for himself, he has social anxiety such that he cannot approach anyone. He can’t call them or email them either. If they approach him, the threshold of emotional energy required to respond is much lower, so he can do that; but he can’t generate that energy/enthusiasm himself.

So okay, spoons is one reason. And being an introvert is likely another. But the “friends” that have been the most egregious at this behavior? Have all been blazing extroverts. They have gobs of energy for everyone else, but for me, it’s “oh, I’ve been ‘so busy’ lately!” Really.

I feel like I bear an invisible ‘mark of the beast’ on my person that advertises to everyone but me that I’m an unlovable monster, so don’t bother with so-called common courtesy, because obviously “people” (ha!) like me don’t deserve it.

People are happy for me to make a fuss over them! But when it’s time for them to make a fuss over me? Don’t be silly — she’s not a person! She doesn’t count! Don’t we have better things to do? And they always do.

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3 Comments leave one →
  1. January 19, 2015 15:52

    Hmmm. I don’t spend as much time on twitter as I used to. I do want to stay friends with you so I shall remember to check in with you more and say hello. I enjoy talking to you and reading your thoughts.

    • January 19, 2015 16:31

      I always enjoy hearing from you! Thank you. 🙂

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