Here’s the exercise:
I take a personal journal writing written sometime in the past…let’s say the past eight years…and I publish it here. I blur out a few specifics so as to avoid any potential awkwardness. The “fun” in this little exercise is that I get to write something I’d never write publicly, since through the filters of time and blurring, I’m…hypothetically…reducing potential awkwardness.
Who am I kidding? This is awkward stuff. Fun? Not quite.
Again, the intention is to purposefully eliminate all context clues. I don’t intend to reveal when it was written, in what context, and what, if any, relevance it has to me today.
Don’t ever read —– —— again. It makes you want to kill yourself. Violently. Bullet to brain.
You are reminded how next-to-impossible it is that you will ever enjoy life a fraction of the amount that —– has. You will not love and have a soul mate and have tremendous amounts of fun and passion and joy. These are things you may have dreamt of for many years and thought within your grasp, but it is apparent now that these are fantasies that will never be part of your reality.
You have pets who will lay next to you on the couch.
You have friends who will be there for you when you are in dire need of assistance.
You have family who love you even if they do not know how to show it.
But, for the most part, you are alone. Mostly suffering. Absent of joy.
But there is not much else. I am, for the most part, alone. I am, for the most part, suffering. My life, for the most part, is devoid of joy.
The catch-22 of such a predicament is that to attract others to me, I must feign an existence and a persona, which I am unable to do for any extended period. In the absence of putting on airs, I am unredeemably toxic.
People mask their own role in their rejection by citing my need for self-love and self-acceptance as a prerequisite for anyone else giving a damn. I think what they are really saying is, “If you liked yourself more, you wouldn’t be so upset that I don’t”.