Ego: February 2004 Archives

I can get so bloody angry sometimes; it just doesn't seem rational. Though things are too busy for interruptions, I'm glad that I'm jetting next week because I really do need to get away; various aspects of my current state are driving me insane and I'm great at bottling it up for inopportune moments, like when I really need to concentrate. But where the hell is a person supposed vent anyway? My closest friend and confidante has become distant from me these last weeks, for reasons I'm not privy to, and the only person I feel safe enough to talk about anything with in person I can't let loose upon because simply being around him diffuses every painful sentiment in my being. I need to find a punch-bag; I've been one since the first time anybody thought of me as trustworthy, but there's no one around for me to take anything out on. For someone with such a wonderful group of friends, I feel distinctly ill-served in this department, but not through any shortcoming of those I love; it's my own doing; I just don't want to, can't, unload on these people who would verily take all that I could throw at them. I wouldn't even know where to start. What a pain in the head. I'm going to go work in the basement. I need to castrate some flowers. This is me, directionless, but I have a scalpel and ultra-fine surgical forceps. Steer well clear. Britain is angry.

This despite a slowly increasing awareness of an unintentional eroding away of my self esteem, not by anyone else, but by me. You see, I've always tended to trust my own convictions, the decisions I've made, and sometimes they've been wrong, but it helps that I can usually recognise where I went wrong in the first place. It's where the answers aren't so clear that things start to become difficult.

Like in love, for example, where the choices made don't only affect you, but someone else. Someone who you may think you know, but whose innermost feelings are forever their own because they won't let you see, or let you be seen. It's a hard thing to find an honest relationship, more mature and more free of the pettinesses of adolescence, where you aren't constantly shielded by your partner from things they mistakenly think you'd rather not know, or be better off not hearing, where you are forced to do the same though it goes against the very essence of your nature. Do I run the constant risk of hurting myself, and more importantly, others, in needing to find something so elusive?

I know it exists, because I've seen it, but it seems rare enough to be the stuff of fantasy. The exceptional. A conventional kind of ungodly divine.

In the last seven years, I've been blessed with the companionship of two men that I've loved dearly, but whom, though no real fault of their own, haven't been the ones. I couldn't conceivably make them understand because it seems illogical enough that a person, that I, should be treated like gold, be loved so deeply, and yet feel so completely unfulfilled that burning the hands that reach for me is all that I can do. But it is no small thing to see anger and resentment each and every time you try to open up.

I don't constantly yearn for happiness, because if there's one thing I'm sure of, mood swings, hormonal imbalance, bad days and awful cooking aside, it is that I am happy, in of myself. I just want to be able to be me without being made to feel guilty for it, and I do think it's possible, but there's every chance that selfishness clouds my thinking, and I'm starting to doubt myself. I'm used to trusting my instincts, and this increasing lack of certainty leaves me anything but comfortable.
And this is who you're dealing with.