Bohemian Rhapsody

There were things that resonated with me; I found myself crying when Love of My Life played. I think you and I have that deep understanding. I told Spencer so after the movie about this feeling. It was somehow deeper than anything romantic, somehow platonic and, I don’t know, simply human about it? He asked if it was because Mary was the first to accept Freddie. It must have been, but it was also this immediate understanding and connection that I’m not fully capable of articulating. I just remember that when we first met it felt like I finally found the friend I’ve been searching for. I’m lucky to have found something like this in my life. I know that if I die soon I still want you in my life even if you’re no longer mine.

I don’t love myself. Hell, I don’t even like myself. I’ve been trying to fix this by loving other people. And maybe that’s why I love so deeply. But it always leaves me empty with a lingering and growing darkness. I’m trying to become the person I always wanted to become. I’m trying to bring out that person inside me that I’ve hidden for so long. And I’m not sure I like him right now. My skin feels like a cage, you know? Tattoos are like prison wall scrapings. Self harm is somehow a fleeting release. And well, suicide is always a thought I’ve repressed, jammed into the deepest cranny my subconscious.

Loneliness and family. I’ve struggled with this. Feeling like no one loves me. Feeling an intense loneliness. And the sad part is when I’m clear minded, I know it’s not true. I have my family. I have my co-workers who feel like another family. I have my few friends and their families that have graciously accepted me. I have so many people who would be destroyed if I died. And I know somehow it all goes back learning to love myself. I just don’t know how to do that? Maybe this should be a new goal for myself this year.

 

 

Rejection and Acceptance

It has been a year of rejections, and maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s a sign I’m coming out of my shell. I’ve poured my heart out more than once, to more than one person. And some shied away, some stayed.  Maybe, again, I’ve focused on the wrong thing.  People stayed.

I’ve lost my appetite for writing fiction. For big metaphors, stunning plot, characterization. It was escapist for me. When so many aspects of reality confronted me this year, I’ve tried to build mysel to confront them. It’s because I want to be more honest in all aspects regarding myself. Say what’s on my mind, do what compels and scares me, and there’s a disconnect between my inner dialogue and my presentation of myself. They need to be reconciled. And the consequence of not? Implosion.

The eyes roved. Millions of eyes flickered. It was a daunting task to hold contact with them. They had this piercing effect, this ability of honing into my soul. And what did they see? What did they conclude about me?

The monolith groaned with the slow creaking of rusted machinery. The remnant of a soul at long last received its stimuli. It projected a shadow to my left, a silhouette I recognized immediately as mine. I stood there, haggard from my travels. The mistakes I was aware of were the first revealed. Refracted light, the deepest colors, leaped from the shadow. My burdens I’ve carried through a whole life, ghosts that haunted me. They were exhumed, animated by the energies I’ve poured into them. More and more escaped from the shadow, their bodies a shade lesser. I’ve done bad things.

Was I seeking penitence coming here? I’ve walked and haven’t stopped walking. I’ve always ascended the next step. Walking higher and higher. And then I was among the clouds. Ephemeral and moving. They were guiding me somewhere. I continued until I’ve arrived here before you.

Is there any redemption for honesty? Who can accept me? I’m seeking a connection, but it seems when I’m honest, people stray away from me. Then it is isolation. It is loneliness as I climb farther away from people. And what of you, God? I’m trying my best to change. I’m trying my best to become better. And it seemed I was at last given a blessing. But when I was honest she told me she was unsure of me. I understand. It’s an ugly thing to admit and to accept. I guess I’m here to ask you, God, is there any hope for me?

BPD

Look, I just want to be honest. I really want to be honest with myself, with people, with the world. I want to be low. I want to be vulnerable. But I don’t want to be judged for it either. I think I fear judgement… I’m afraid of people thinking I’m something negative. They might think I’m weak, stupid, or unstable, crazy even.

I considered that I might have borderline personality disorder. I met a therapist, who asked extensively about my sexual history. He insisted that those with BPD are sexually unsafe, often practicing unsafe sex with anyone. At the time, I had only one sexual partner. I read the symptoms, but he continuously fixated on the whole sex thing. I mean what about the shift in emotions? Orrr the violent, volatile emotions? Or how I invalidate myself. Or how I burned myself and or how I regularly dabble in planning my wonderful suicide, my final departure from all my suffering. Nope. He just focused on the sex. Fucking pervert.

So I put the idea out of my mind for some time. But then one day I stumbled into a bookstore and found myself in the psychology section. The plan had been to find some self-help books, perhaps some Carl Jung, or perhaps that new David Goggins’ book. But the title popped out at me. Coping with BPD. No, I thought I already laid that demon to rest. My curiosity must have gotten the best of me. I poured through it, not really wanting to pick it up. Well chapter by chapter, the symptoms just seemed to match me a little too well. An emptiness began to spread through me. And horrible memories of my anger exploding returned. This was me… Fuck that therapist. I bought the book and I’ve been hesitant to explore it.

But I find myself going through it, and it was me. I mean I’m no longer as bad… but it was me. Part of the book said to not dwell on past mistakes. To accept that you’ve done bad things, but there’s nothing you can do about the past. Try to change your perspective about it. So my past is my cautionary tale now. I will be better. Please, I’m hopeful for myself. Because I know if I’m not, no one else will be for me.

This place is beyond hipster. But it’s also sci-fi. This place is easily the brightest place on the block. There are hanging foliage along the walls. Everything else is blindly white. When I first walked in, I thought I had stumbled into a futuristic lab where they genetically modify babies. Why am I here? This place is not my kind of place if I were honest with myself. No, I prefer the squalid coffee shop down the street, where the decor is tacky like an old western saloon, with swinging doors that will slap your ass if you’re unaware of them. I’ve made friends with writers there, but I’ve forgotten their names. The few baristas I’ve befriend have mostly left save for Kenny, who will be putting in his 2 week’s notice soon enough. I have this tendency of disliking a place when I notice people going on with their lives and I’m still around. I can’t help feeling like I’m not somehow progressing. I hate that feeling of being stuck, and I know it’s silly and in my head. There’s something jittery about me; I like to move around a lot. I fidget a lot. I can’t seem to get comfortable anywhere for too long. Though I’ve acclimated in this spot, it still feels off in some sense.

I’m trying to quit the habit of saying what’s for me and what’s not for me. I’ve found that once I’ve stopped labeling places and things to do as me or not me, whole new worlds have opened for me. And I’ve been enjoying life more because of it. It’s good to have a strong grasp of one’s identity, but to have a death-hold on it, well, that’s an unchanging, tedious life. Who am I? I like to say I don’t know. But I know perfectly well who I am.

I’m the newby at the boxing gym, but many people have taken me under their wings. I’m learning a lot and it’s good to sweat, really sweat… I talk about my feelings with people when they ask -a lot about relationships, finding oneself, the difference between being in love and loving someone. And when life is slow, I find myself slumpy and sad. I’m good though. I’m good. I’m good. I can’t be not good.

Let your personality come through

No one cares if you’re sad when you’re a 25 year old dude. And that’s exactly the way it should be. Because that’s the rite of passage for any adult, man or woman. You handle you own shit. Suffer and you get stronger. As I laid on the boxing floor, the coach screams, “You’re here to suffer!” Oh I was terrible, but I didn’t mind. Step and jab. Twist at the hips. Keep your knees bent and keep your hands up. Don’t knock yourself out. How to properly wrap your hands. I like being a beginner because you learn so much. I could tell my coach doubted whether I could ever be a boxer. I was already labeled a person boxing for cardio, a boy with money but no athletic abilities (I don’t even have any fucking money). To be fair, I doubt whether I’m a fighter. But whether that’s due to fear or my insecurity, well those are two different things. Either way, I have to learn to be a fighter. Because I’ve been getting my ass handed to me for the last 25 years. I quit too early. I run away. I get angry when I should smile at obstacles. I’m lazy and to put it simply, I’m not a man. I know the entirety of my posts have been obsessively about you, but it’s the only frame of reference for who I was and who I am now and who I can become. Fuck the old Alan. He sucks. I wouldn’t want to be with him either.

My boss called me in complementing me but really criticizing me. What he was really saying was my post lacked personality. But I went back to the lab and wrote something I’m proud of. “This is really great. It’s very charming, Alan. Great work. You have to remember I hired you out of hundreds of applicants because of your writing. Let your personality come through.”

Honestly I’m afraid to let my personality come through, but that moment made me happy… I should do things with pride, with the mindset of kicking ass and making things better. I’m so full of doubt, and it’s easy to let that impede potential. It’s like I’m not even aware I’m shooting myself in the foot sometimes, you know? I am an ordinary person trying to be extraordinary.

 

 

 

 

Fish out of Water

His hand slid down my back and grabbed a handful of my unsuspecting ass. “You’re very sexy! I like your whiskers,” he politely referred to my 6 month old mustache. It must have been the slurry of drugs and alcohol I consumed, but I think I handled it rather smoothly. “Thanks man, you look great too! I’m straight though!” I was too much in my head and in the music. We danced together a good bit until he was lassoed away by a man I hoped he scored with.

I spent the earlier part of the night with a guy hellbent on getting a girl. “Tonight would be nothing if I don’t get that kiss.” As all his advances were shot down, he quickly became a prime example of how not to behave towards the opposite sex, or perhaps people in general. He would stare-hunt girls across the place and approach them predatory like with a strange primitive dance. He was there for the girls, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. I commend his efforts. But I quickly realized I was there for myself.

As I bobbed like wet cardboard on the dance floor, too inebriated to care, I realized I didn’t care to talk to any ladies. Sure, I’ve been feeling crippling loneliness lately, but I don’t think anyone there could have taken away the feeling.

“So are you meeting people there?” My lyft driver asked, on the way to said venue.
“Nope. Going by myself.”
“Oh man that sounds lonely.”

His voice haunted me as I arrived a little too early. It made me anxious. I was a fish out of water, clearly, in my pink hoodie as everyone around dressed in nice shirts and dresses with fur coats. The fucking event is called minimal effort! To be fair, there were others in a t-shirts and jeans. My fellow people. Anyways, my driver’s comment made me physiologically nervous! Knees weak and palms sweaty. This is going to suck. I’m not going to like this at all. I don’t do this kind of stuff.

I had a great time. Life begins when comfort ends, right? I met so many people. I danced with a few ladies, one with such a thick Russian accent, I didn’t understand half the words she said. Another literally fell into my arms, hugging me. Her eyes staring at me like a deer in headlights, clearly too fucked up. Her friend desperately tried to pull her through the crowd. “I’ll be back in an hour.” I nodded. “Are you all right? You should go with your friend. She’s waiting for you.” To which, she held me closer. She was incredibly beautiful. But I wasn’t going to be the creepy dude who abducts a fucked up girl from her friend. I smiled and helped her through. “You should go with your friend!”

Considering how still my feet were, I was surprised to have suddenly been transported to another part of the dance floor. Many groups of friends adopted me, passing me joints and drinks, all which I consumed. Yes, I will take a drag. I don’t care what’s in your drink. If I see you drinking it and you’re offering it, I’m going to drink it. I don’t drink, but I didn’t want to feel my feelings anymore man! So I drank and I smoked. My new friend offered me e, which I should have taken. I remember at some point searching for him in a room with probably 300 people, hunting for that e! I felt like a drug addict.

Of course the big question popped up occasionally throughout the night: who are you here with? At the beginning I would answer timidly, “Myself. I figured I should do something fun tonight.” Well that quickly evolved to, “My fucking self! And I’m having a damn good time.” To which my foster friends would erupt with heys and pass me all the alcohol and drugs.

After an expensive ride home, I curled into a ball in front of my mini heater. “Don’t you dare vomit,” I whispered with my forehead slopped on the floor. Writing this now and recounting last night made me realize something. I’m not after sex or any girl. I desperately want someone to understand me, to see me clearly and say you’re not a bad person, you’re a good person. And yet I don’t think anyone can give me that validation. No one but me…

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