It’s funny that I had decided to write more, and I had written something, and it was sitting in my drafts waiting to be posted. [It was ready to be posted! This is a big deal.] And then life just did its thing and I am keeping it in my drafts because I have to rewrite it. Edit out the bits I don’t feel anymore. Edit out the things that are no longer true. And while I said I didn’t want to edit too much anymore, I also said I didn’t know how personal to get, not too personal, yet not too edited. So, lesson learned? This thing happens where one month goes by with me living my life and the universe doing its weird thing and me going “Oh wow, a LOT can happen in one month”. If I didn’t get personal, it would just be forgotten. Writing helps. Let’s get personal.
I have come to the conclusion that October is not a good month for dating. Like a nightmare where it’s hard to wake up. You try and try but you wake up only to find out you’re stuck in another nightmare. When you hurt yourself on the same stone thrice because bad things come in threes.
You shout it out
But I can’t hear a word you say
I’m talking loud not saying much
I’m criticized but all your bullets ricochet
You shoot me down, but I get up
I’m not immune to criticism. I hear them. The things you say. The things you say when you speak words that creep between the lines. The ones that don’t even need the form of words. I hear them loud and clear. They enter my being. Cut me open, pull at my strings. And then you leave. The cuts will heal, but the scars will stay. Do you think I will forget the things you said? You may be a master wordsmith but you say more than just with your mouth, your body, your eyes. The way I looked you in the eye, pleaded, no, stop, it hurts, no, please… I saw the spite stare right back at me, just this once, just a little bit longer, it hurts me too when you don’t want me. I will carry this with me forever. As a result, I will remember every single flaw of mine that you list. “It’s not me, it’s the medication.” It’s never you, it’s never what you do, it’s never what you intend. And I believe you. You don’t intend to hurt someone. But the truth is, you did.
It’s unhealthy, toxic, manipulative. All the things you say I am, of course. It’s you who will not listen, you take all of this blame and you put it in my lap: take it home, deal with that. How can one small boy with depression ever have responsibility for anything? “It’s not me, it’s you.” Listen to the mother. Doesn’t a mother know her son the best? Don’t mind the girl who was there for every argument, every accusation, every childish request and every temper tantrum. This boy does not want to grow. It’s unhealthy for us to keep talking to each other. We do it anyway, for far too long. Throwing words at each other. In real life, online, over texts. There’s evergrowing distance between us. Mental, physical, even in time, a distance we cannot bridge. The last words we throw at each other a battle to have the last word in. The bitterness creeping into every day of my life, even if I’m completely alone. Still unhealthy, still toxic. No amount of self-care erases the damage done. Most of all, it doesn’t make up for the cracks already in place, the scars that are still forming.
I’m bulletproof nothing to lose
Fire away, fire away
Ricochet, you take your aim
Fire away, fire away
You shoot me down but I won’t fall, I am titanium
I’m still healing when I meet you. You could pass for any normal person and secretly be the most dangerous. Nobody would know. I certainly didn’t. I didn’t realise that immaturity comes in many forms. It’s not always as easily recognisable as a public spat on the side of the road. It disguises itself as support. What comes out seems accepting and loving but what brews within is sinister. The disapproval, I still hear it. And yet, I don’t hear anything. Every week, rejection. Every week, heartbreak. Disguised as necessary, wrapped in good intentions. Tiny cracks, I don’t notice them chipping away at my soul. A curse on the words alone time. Yet, I know I am not without blame. This time I’m the one counting how much happens and how often. I know I have to work on communication, not to let things escalate. Have to undo years of unhealthy behaviour. Have to learn and grow. I carry around a shark and there are moments the shark takes over. But I feel betrayed, because I tried so hard not to let them hurt me. hurt us. I tried to prevent them from biting. I thought you understood. Yet you move the ground from under me. “It’s not me, it’s the medication. I don’t know who I am.” And once again, a parade of flaws. As if I could change my whole personality and suddenly the cracks would disappear. As if nothing ever happened. But then I would not be me. How can someone do this? How can this happen again? After I tried so hard, after I tried to learn, after I tried to change and grow? I realise that in growing, I changed. Probably, I left behind the things you liked about me. I think. All that is left, are questions. I have to fill in my own gaps. A past I never knew, a you I never knew and never will know. Once again, the mother knows best, doesn’t she?
I see what happened and I vow, I will not let it happen again.
“It’s you. It’s not me, it’s the drugs. I wish I could just be me again.”
I have heard this before.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. But fool me three times, now what?
I didn’t want to be mean. Maybe I’m overreacting. I have a knack for finding superstitions where maybe I shouldn’t. I didn’t want to be dismissive just because of the medication. But maybe I should have listened to my intuition. “Just because some people were dicks, doesn’t mean all of them are,” I hear my friends say. I want to believe them. I want to stay optimistic, take a shot at a thing that could be good. Unfortunately, there are too many red flags I cannot ignore. Too many flashbacks that make me unable to ignore my own feelings. Once again I get them: the flaws, the condemnations, the accusations. All of the reasons that make me a horrible person, the things that I do wrong, the things that make me worthless, useless, hopeless. I can only hold so much, my lap is too small for all of your issues. I would like help untangling the mess, not more added to it. You cannot manipulate me like this.
Cut me down
But it’s you who’ll have further to fall
Ghost town, haunted love
Raise your voice, sticks and stones may break my bones
I’m talking loud not saying much
And who are you, crybabies of the twentyfirst century? Nobody knows you, not you, not me, not your friends, not your mothers. It’s easy, that. We don’t know you, but we should know better, but the mothers always know the best. Well, that’s too many layers that I can’t figure out.
Is it easier, not having to be defensive about your actions? Do you feel relief, not having to deal with my flawed, broken, misunderstanding, harsh, mean, manipulative, toxic, unhealthy self? Do you spend your days just relishing all that alone time, thinking about how right you are and how wrong I am to think we can do better? Because I spent my time thinking about all my flaws and every single thing that I could have done better. It’s a daily exercise in futility, one that I can’t help. But one that happens because you were sure not to miss a single one when you pointed out my flaws.
Davey forbid that someone question your attitude to white [cis] [straight] male privilege. You want to spend your life calling your exes “bitches” and arguing that “not all men” are horrible, that your girlfriends should behave a certain way. And the sad part of all of this, is that you can find many people in your network that will think the same. So you can hold each other up. Because why would you keep each other accountable? Why would anyone take responsibility? Why would the crybabies take ownership of their actions? They can run straight to their peers who will make sure the torches protesting actual human decency will stay securely aflame.
Stone-hard, machine gun
Firing at the ones who run
Stone-hard, thus bulletproof glass
It’s okay. I’m okay. I will learn and heal and grow. I will continue to change. Bear the accusations and carry my flaws like battlewounds. It’s funny how you try to warn people and they don’t believe you. “I have flaws,” I say. I list the things that were said, the things that make me a bad girlfriend. I mention my struggles, my previous life experience, my anxieties. And I always mention my shark. “That’s okay,” they start by saying. Oh, how they’re different. How they don’t mind these things. And I’m working on my flaws, that’s what matters, right? All we need to do is find issues that fit with ours. Support each other. Yet, when it comes down to it, none of that is reality. I get the same accusations thrown back at me. But I know it’s unfair. I know you can do better. Don’t be the crybaby in the clothes of a normal guy. And if you can’t do that, then there is nothing I can do. Your accusations don’t cut me anymore. But that doesn’t mean I’m not hurt. I’m not titanium, I’m only human. There are limits to my capabilities.
There is nothing more I could have done.
I will not make any more vows. The only thing I can do anymore is hope. So here’s to hoping.
sharks are really nice animals and they are some of my favourites. Sharks already get a bad reputation and that makes me sad. I know I’m not helping that by mentioning my struggles in the form of a shark, so here’s an explanation. Dogs are often used a metaphor for depression. I started calling my shark a shark a couple of years ago, before I knew of the dog allegory. While the dog imagery is really fitting, I decided to stick to my shark. It fits me better. I’m a creature of the sea, after all.
My shark is friendly a lot of the time, but you don’t know how sharp their teeth are until you get too close. The thing is, my shark is unpredictable, sometimes hurts me, sometimes hurts others. Mostly my shark is a shark because they usually take over for a longer period of time [shark week! ] and they are aggravated by the smell of blood. Which is probably a shark myth, so here’s an article with cool things about sharks to make up for my mistakes. Let it be known that I love sharks, and I have learned to love my shark. I continue to try and train my shark. If you’re nice to my shark, if you take good care of them, they are mostly harmless. Don’t be scared of sharks!