This title works on so many levels.
I think I am going to start trying to post once a week from here on, just about anything. I have been wanting to make this more… thought out I guess? That carries with it the problem of not being me though.
My usual writing style is sort of stream-of-consciousness as you may have noticed, tired, and usually unedited.
So, starting today I’m going to try and do this on a weekly basis from now on, just as an attempt to find my own voice and just rediscover some sort of creative outlet, even if it is mostly just personal diatribes that most would deem better for a journal. But that’s okay because I feel like sharing this stuff.
Also my journal is mostly just me complaining that I’m horny and no one wants to hear that.
People in the past have shared with me a less than flattering take that I am, “hard to read.” This has especially rung true in regards to my feelings about someone. Relationships have often had rocky beginnings because of my inability to show how I’m feeling.
Aloofness, while valued in a literary or cinematic world as it opens a character up for development (or characterizes them as a psychopath) — isn’t as valued in real life by many. In fact, as social animals, one of our primary methods of communication is through body language despite how much emphasis we have placed on other forms since the development of civilization.
Since this isn’t a movie in which I play a manic pixie dream girl, being aloof or distant is not a desirable quality in either a friend or partner. So then, why? What is it that leads me to act this way? Am I actually a psychopath, devoid of emotion, making up fake emergencies and tugging at people so I can get what I want?
I am not. I feel. Albeit at less volume due to antidepressants — but I do feel. So then what the hell man? And the only answer I have, and this is an answer is:
I don’t know.Me – All the time
And that is a sincere answer, because something I have learned through a lot of self-discovery (non-masturbatory) and help from a therapist is that I really don’t have much of a sense of self.
Think about that for a moment. You might wake up every day, knowing exactly who you are. Why you do the things you do. Some may say that those thoughts are simply shaped by the environment you are in, but at the very least you have some sort of idea of you. You have growth that you know led you to the person and place that you are. When someone asks you how you are, you don’t hesitate in an answer. It doesn’t always have to be truthful, but you are able to say it. While we are animals, and become stuck in chemically mandated habits, we are at least aware of it.
Go and ask an animal the same thing. They have no idea. They are likely doing what their brains and bodies deem is the most desirable at that moment. But they don’t know why as far as we can tell. They’re not aware of themselves or what they are doing. Why if you stick a mirror in front of a cat — it will think it is another animal despite making all the same movements.
Go and ask me the same thing. While I’ve become better at vomiting out the line, “I’m okay, how are you?” The truth is unless I have time to think about how I’m feeling I probably don’t really know. This is something my therapist brings up very often, because when she asks about something how I feel I often pause and need to collect my thoughts which is not always a trivial process. I’m so inside all the time that I’m not even aware of the things that are more basal and instinctual. It’s a weird feeling and thought to have.
One thing that stood out to me that I recently remembered was a time where an ex and I were going to a retirement party for her former boss. I forget what we were talking about or even listening to something and she asked, “Why do you never ask me about my past?” This was probably in response to my constant regurgitating of the same stories of my own, but never asking about her’s. Which, is fair. I came up with the answer, “Because I don’t really value that stuff all that much in my own life, so I don’t really think about asking it,” which may have been a lie. I’m not sure honestly, considering my own inconsiderateness when it comes to talking about myself sometimes. And I don’t even know why I do that, other than it’s the only thing I can think of talking about. And if I don’t do these pre-defined scripts, I just freeze. It’s definitely a weird dichotomy, but it makes sense when you think about it.
This was a recurring argument in our relationship. And it’s one that really sticks with me and maybe has contributed to this sense of not knowing who the hell I am. I think, if I am not aware of myself, how in the world can I be aware of others? I operate on almost autopilot at times, just saying things in an attempt to keep things interesting, rather than being in the moment and learning about the other person there.
We were together for three years, and I realize I never knew about this person. And it’s not her fault at all. It’s mine for not getting to know her. And that is one of the most painful things I think I have come to realize about all of this. I didn’t care about learning about that person, because I don’t care to learn about myself.
And so, I don’t learn about their “self”.
Because I don’t really know the one of my own.