Ep. 3 “I’ve been told that I’m too much for people”
Dear Ana,
It’s 4 in the morning.
I look into the mirror and a stranger stares back at me: Dude looks like a schizophrenic Czech violinist. The facial features of a madman, the hairstyle of a dollar-store Shelby and the frame of a malnourished 12 year old boy. A blue and brown checkered shirt on ’em is ruffled and sticky with filth. The pretentious twat startles me with a chuckle and the stillness of dawn is broken. Cobwebs, from the far corners of the bathroom, echo his delight and a sense of peace washes over me.
“It’s been a while, man… Where’ve you been?” I ask and he smiles in response. There’s not much to him but his presence is reassuring and warm. I shake my head as a smile of my own tugs at the corners of my mouth.
“Eh, who cares… It’s good to have you back.”
One of our conversations hast stuck with me for a while now, Ana. I’ve no idea how much you remember of it but I distinctly recall you saying: “I’ve been told that I’m too much for people”. I could have cried right then and there; Could have shown you all the varying shades of my pussy as I claw at the sky and rejoice for finding somebody experiencing the same struggle.
Going through existence with a completely unfiltered, raw version of yourself is selfish and unkind to those around you. We’re all just stumbling along in life, trying to figure this mess out… The least we could do is reign in the baggage we’re dragging along so it doesn’t trip others.
I’ve spent enough time without having that same consideration reciprocated and know very well how it feels when you can’t be who you are. When people around you keep constantly chipping away at who you are, whittling away with disappointed frowns and impatient sighs.
We need the feedback of our piers, ain’t no way around that. There is no progress to be made without the input of others, I firmly stand by that belief… But the problem is that when you’re so desperate for love, and acceptance, the voices of a few can drown out the voices of many. With a self-esteem low enough to use as a fucking doormat you’ll find yourself running back again and again to the voices of the few… Run back so many times that the soles of your shoes and the spirit of who you are have both worn off. Now you’re left barefoot and dirty, hobbling along, chasing people who don’t have the capacity to “truly love” anyway.
Some of us can’t be anything less than ourselves, it’s the only thing we know so when that’s taken away we just turn into balls of anxiety. We question everything we say and do. I remember times when I apologized for enforcing my boundaries. I also remember nights on end spent rummaging through my consciousness for answers, trying to figure out what I did wrong, why I was the problem once more, why I wasn’t GOOD ENOUGH.
Ana… I understand why you lock yourself away sometimes, why your phone keeps ringing without an answer and why you disappear from one moment to the next. Why bother? Why bother answering when what you’ve got to say is not good enough? Why show up if this version of yourself — the only version you got for that matter — is met with contempt?
Why go to the effort of spending time with people if every minute of it goes by with you wondering if you said or did something wrong?
“Am I being too much again?”
If there is a singular thing that I could wish for you, Ana, it would be to find peace with who you are. Find strength in it, find love in it, find the TRUTH in it. I know this shit looks scary but your life, as it is now, has about as much joy to it as a rusty old vibrator fished out of your grandma’s douche bag. It does the trick, sure… But you could experience so much more if you could just muster the courage to believe in yourself.
Which are you more afraid of: ending up alone or surrounded by people who drag you down into their own misery?
It only took a couple of months of me being more or less clean. Only took a bit of isolation and a whole fuckin’ lot of crying and whimpering. Took a bit of love from the people that matter and a barrage of cruelness from the ones that don’t. It took a bit of reflection and a lot of resilience.
I’ve spent too much fucking time committing genocide on the last neurons that survived the years of my degeneracy. Burned through years of my youth trying to appease everybody, trying to win the love of everybody. But when you’re burned out, tired and worn, there’s nobody there to help stop the shaking. When the anxiety rips you out of your dreams all that’s left there, to greet you, is a dusty apartment that still carries the distinct detergent-like musk of amphetamines.
I want peace, Ana… I want peace. I’ll reign in my baggage, I ain’t tripping anybody over anymore. But let’s be fair here… I’m 34 years old. The fuck am I doing hanging out with people who have nothing but contempt for me?
So I stand, at 4 in the morning, looking into the mirror and slowly recognizing the man staring back at me. The relief that floods over me is bliss and I see myself smiling. Fuck, man… I missed being me.
For the first time after so many years, I’m back to being myself again: I know who I am, Ana.
…do you?
