“If You Pity Me, I Will Haunt You” part 1
This post is about assumptions, healing, and universal abuse. (Divided into 2 parts for now because IDK what to delete). This post includes, extols, and explicates “chronic broken promises.”
This post is formally about “needs.” I do not demand any specific accommodations nor can I think of what they are beyond sheer literacy. Please: read me? A digital document is reading for the dead. If we are real people, we can also experience and read each other in these moments. Is this what social media should be for?
Please do not forsake this and run to your books, or to your collection of dreams, or to your strange habits which I already find beautiful before even knowing what they are. That’s because I’ve accepted you before I read you. That’s because any good writer, influencer or instructor — to be poignant, enjoys the sound of these rivers which impossibly circulate in the mind. It sounds good upon first automatic write. And therefore I am tortured with an impossibility to edit.
Like an eternal child yelping for control and noticement — the similes get worse, and worse: and I stop trying to stop. That’s how bad it is. This is an open cry for help — except I’m not crying, I’m writing. Try to remember that before judging the godless artist.
When I realize my inherent suffering and inherent evil, I don’t believe that I’m deprived from the possibility of taking responsibility for these things. That’s because I’ve deconditioned token stereotypes & have ironically found great pleasure in doing this. This was before I made the intention to forcibly make it political, as a wise person once spoke to me that political life was the only force which could ignite conversation discomforting enough to be hilarious.
This was way back — you know — like, before Donald Trump was president. I write his name with integrity here to break form. I’m a citizen, and therefore: I am a president? A self-preserving one, to say the most. Unbenevolent at best, and miserably lost in the gates of hell and donor recipients at most. There is no “least” when it comes to healing. Everything is good on top of good on top of good. This isn’t ego or super ego: this is transcendental wonder and need. Some people are wounded more deeply than others due to a lack of coverage, much like sun burn for pale folk.
The noble causes rage from the depths of philosophy. Their only problem? They use their current experiences as a metaphor to implore, scorn, and debase systematic political conflict. And by this I mean: they are screaming for their voices to be heard. Screaming in a way that no one can possibly understand, unless they give a red-tape’s power about the cause being advocated for. Bad move. Bad move for everyone. Meaning: healers, advocates, public desire-ers of public approval. It’s not going to work if self-awareness forces me to create a new insight about what cannot exist but just might. Ah, limericks.
New insights: metaphors stimulate discussion because they refuse to change their mind. They are set in their ways, especially if they are a writer. They are uninterested in changing this for they do not know, how to edit. They are inspired by John Donne on rough occasions: but more generally are in love with the boy in class who talks about death and the superiority of women — but does not dare inch towards her past his marvelous words.
I understand hurt because I’ve felt rejected, hideous, and was sexually denied before by someone who I was overwhelmingly attracted to. How did this impact him — the significant other who did these denials to me (apparently)? If we were truly equals, and if the aforementioned statement can be considered for a brief thought experiment: he’d think that I was the one who attacked him — for wasn’t this what love, was?
Oh, emotional abuse. Don’t call it emotional. Emotional indicates fleeting & visceral, which indicates desire, which indicates sexual feelings lacking the depth of intentionality, which indicates the very reality of a person who is healing from misidentified sexual abuse. In “coming of age” stories for women — this can be commonly found due to our sex-assigned experiential narrative, and this is supposed to make the process of ageing into the horrid stories which are made into fiction that incorporates just a tinge of mythical wonder to force the audience into pity — as beautiful lifestyles that we should all desire. A balanced life. More respectably: a one where we are serving the pain that did not exist but rather, was re-created.
I’m not like this. If I’m reading your memoir, and if I dislike it — and if I cannot pity it: I will say this (at least, behind a screen I will? Oh God). I will inform you that it disorients me. I expect and welcome all such treatment to me. And please: don’t be shy to ACTUALLY say it instead of communicating this to me with unexpressed emotions that only reinforce the psychological abuse, likely for the both of us.