ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʳᵘᵇ ᶦᵗ ᶦⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ
ᴺᵒ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵉʳᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵃ ᶠʳᶦᵉⁿᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵉ
ᴶᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵃˡˡ ᵐʸ ᵐᵒᵛᶦᵉˢ
ˢᵗᵃᵇᵇᶦⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵉᵃᵈ ᶦⁿ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ ˢᶜᵉⁿᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ’ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ˢᵗᵒᵖ ᵘⁿᵗᶦˡ ʸᵒᵘ
ᴿᵉᵃˡᶦᶻᵉ ʰᵒʷ ʸᵒᵘ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ᵐᵉ ᶠᵉᵉˡ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ ˢʷᵉᵃʳ ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵃᵘˡᵗ
ᴬᵗ ˡᵉᵃˢᵗ ᵗʰᵃᵗ’ˢ ʷʰᵃᵗ ᴵ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ·
The very first time I talked about not talking about things, I hypothesised regarding my sheer inability to open up more and stupidly concluded that perhaps it was one of my greatest weaknesses (yeah, disgustingly yucky, I know). But after a couple years, several hundred other pretentious, maundering posts, and far too much obnoxious, exhausting drama with the wrong people later, I’ve come back with a better understanding of my overbearing privacy and to refute my initial statement. Because oh boy, was I ever right and wrong. Right in the sense that I was right to keep most things to myself, and wrong in ever thinking that that was inherently going to be a bad thing for me.
But before anything else, I would like to go on record and say that this is not targeted at anyone or anything specific. It’s just a crude pastiche of all the incredibly-minor annoyances that’s been silently digging into my brain these past few years, thoroughly compiled into another off-the-rails rant that no one really cares about. It’s therapeutic for me because my broke, third-world, lower middle-class arse can’t afford actual therapy, so y’all have to cut me some kind of slack for that, right? Pretty pretty please with a xanax on top? And really, this is just what happens to the degraded brain of someone who hasn’t interacted with anyone (and I do literally mean any other human being, this is not another piss-poor attempt at severe exaggeration) besides their damned, suffering cat for almost a month now. Long story short (but it’s only ironically about to get longer), there is no personal vitriol intended in this for anyone except myself, and getting affected by it is beyond my liability at this point. And please for the love of Zaphod Beeblebrox’s second head, do take everything I write down with half a grain of salt because these are just my personal angry, self-sabotaging, misanthropic opinions and it should never have to apply to everyone else. Alright, moving on.
Here’s the thing, then. Attempting to make connections in *that* extreme personal way, i.e. talking about literally everything to someone no matter how trivial or private the topic, is a very dangerous minefield to tread. And it’s not as if you could even tell if the person on the other side is completely willing to reciprocate it. Most of the time, you’ll come out of it barely alive with your intestines casually hanging out your bloody camos and wanting of a few limbs here and there, and all the exhausting effort you undertook will simply feel unnecessarily pyrrhic. Risking a thousand detonating devices for maybe possibly not really just one or two fake diamond bullets to shoot yourself in the foot with??? Wow, sounds like a fucking steal to me! And believe me when I say I’ve been there far too often than I’m proud to admit, otherwise I’d still be out there, blindly trying to convince myself to get my entire spinal column blown off to high heavens like forbidden enamel popcorn, just one last time for the sweet hell of it. Advice: save yourself and the other man and keep some defunct minefields in your pocket all for yourself, please. And make sure it doesn’t accidentally jostle or fall out and make you another fool’s casualty. Or if all else fails, just chuck it back to their smug sneers and take cover. Effective, and at least you won’t get hurt.
Here’s how the grueling cycle usually goes: slowly open up about deeper things, some people suddenly arrive, it’s all mac and cheese and good Kraft-brand bliss for a while, but they start overstaying their welcome, cause a lot more petty tantrums and inane misunderstandings as they end up tracking dirt and mud all over your already-messy mind, all before ungraciously storming away from you and never showing their face ever again outside of sleepless nights and cringeworthy memories—but not before knocking down every vase and window and fragile ornament in the house, just for good measure. All you’re going to be left with is more unresolved issues to clean up after and a stranger’s pile of secrets that you don’t have a use for anymore. And worst case scenario, some stranger out there now has your secrets that they might just intend to use to their own means. Not in every case of course, when these things come to a colliding head with a thermonuclear meltdown, it should be for the best for both parties to simply leave things behind and move on. But there’s just far too many entitled, patronising, self-pitying, victim card-holding, choosing beggars out there who would burn the entire solar system to offer their utmost trust and concern to you, just to do a complete 180° as soon as they start to sweat when the climate feels awry, and finally twist your head off and dance on your cremated remains. The sad part of this is, there’s sometimes a strange, lingering, irritating urge to crawl back and have a second go on the classic human burn machine for old times sake, just to fuck things over colossally again ad nauseum. I’d soon as well rather fend off for myself and get well hammered in an Applebee’s carpark at 3 AM on Sunday and throw up in someone’s drive-through meal and get beaten up to a fleshy pulp just to entirely avoid all that nonsense, ta very much. And several well-intended shots of tonic and Robitussin to wash off the terrible hangover aftertaste would also be such a fine treat. Bottoms up, lads.
Also notice that most (keyword is most here folks, I swear I’m not that entirely heartless. yet.) of the longest-standing friends I currently have are the ones that are more so cheery fun and mucking around with each other, and little to no excess baggage dumping. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, I do love that rather silly, affectionate, no-strings-attached sort of tango about them, and I highly appreciate my friends for still putting up with me even when I’m an insufferable prick. I’m always there for them even if that sounds terribly subversive, all that sappy yet genuine stuff and so forth. But even then, I’m already beginning to lose grasp of them as I start to think that I’m irredeemably unworthy for them, as they grow up to find newer people and lead better lives and my crummy puzzle piece falls away from their bigger picture, as I realise just how much I never really knew them at all. Back to professional-level sterile kind of friendship, almost. Soon enough it’ll all just be mass-produced cheesy Hallmark greeting cards every birthdays and Christmas and the occasional awkward water cooler small talk about Chad and Stacey and paramour Davie from the next street maybe having their fifteenth baby whenever we run into each other. Welcome to adulthood, bellend. Everyone’s too busy to care.
Even my oh-so kindhearted family’s been doing their very best recently to try to blatantly alienate me and stay out of my way. I say blatant, and I mean every time someone even tries to reluctantly approach my room, they have a twisted grimace poised on their pious faces like they have their own bleached arsehole hairs stuck in between their fingernails and couldn’t wash it out because I greedily took all the soap in the house and shoved it down my filthy trachea. Not to mention my doting mother’s Oscar-worthy pantomime of her third child’s pure nonexistence since two weeks ago for no particular discernible reason, not to use a dead meme but bitch I got Thanos-snapped out of her dense spacy braincells innit. Maybe because of my shallow, repressive, self-absorbed problems, maybe because they just can’t be bothered anymore after 19 years of being forced to put up with my emo angsty horseshite, maybe because more and more they’re resenting the festering fact that I’ve really done nothing good for them ever since I was forcibly carved out of my mum’s belly like a sentient tumour. Yeah, thanks, ’cause I fucking begged to be here guys, I totally wouldn’t want to be aborted off into Satan’s left armpit if I had the choice. Alright, distasteful tangents aside, the point is that there is simply no solace in talking to anyone anymore. Everyone’s got their own worries and difficulties they’re trying to work through, so what makes your pathetic fucking trauma any more special than theirs? Don’t be a whinging pussy about it. Be like the rest. Suck it up and deal.
If there’s one thing I’m finally starting to learn about life after years and years of idiotically bumbling about contrived people and repeating the same embarrassing mistakes, it’s to just shut it the fuck down and shut the fuck up. Complain quietly. Cry where no one can see you. Indulge in a hundred distractions and vices and coping mechanisms if it would give you some form of relief. Scream at a wall, at a black void, on the internet towards apathetic, faceless pixels who won’t give half a washed-up mermaid’s fishy twat if you killed yourself with some cheap petrol and a blowtorch immediately the next day, before deleting it forever. Hide your abrasive goddamn scars behind a million layers of whatever because who honestly wants to see that grotesque attention-seeking slut (slut is me I guess), and put on a grand show of your useless life if you really need to. There’s absolutely no use in broadcasting emotions and airing out your dirty laundry—except perhaps beyond an occasional societally-acceptable grumble about some trivial matters—anymore. Unless of course, if you’re paying someone thousands of dollars per session for it. Ohhh, what a fucking fantasy.
I do get that it’s nice to have an occasional deep conversation with someone every now and then and I will never mind that sort of refreshing discussion with the right company, but hey, just don’t expect to teeter close to the edge and walk out bone dry, is all. And don’t even think for a second that you could always just dip a tentative toe in whenever you so blithely wish, without one day accidentally slipping and drowning on your own blatant folly; and all before stupidly dragging in the other person with you because your untied shoelaces are so incredibly entangled up with each other. So for both your benefit and for the others, deception and suppression is an acquired skill that might feel rather counterproductive at first, but soon becomes a normalised, familiar, welcoming change all in due time. I don’t know about you, but permanent numbness is better than perpetually-constant sensory overload. That, to me, is the definition of engineered paradise. Call it jaded, cynical, poisonous thinking, grab your violently-optimistic torches and pitchforks and scream hellfire while shivving it straight into my shrieking throat for being overtly negative, but damn, that wouldn’t change the fact that it’s more realistic than simply tossing a rusty bottlecap in an old empty well and wishing for the opposite until your fingers bleed out and your jaws seize up from tetanus. If you’re irreversibly tired of existence anyway, might as well just use that to your highest advantage.
So please, just no more flimsy, annoying, uncomfortable support systems gingerly patting each other on the back like fragile little prissy snowflakes for being ‘oh-so brave’. No more “please go find someone to talk to!” bullshit and other sickeningly banal reassurances. No more actively seeking out extremely toxic codependent relationships in hopes of finding temporary comfort and false redemption, and being dumbly surprised when it all starts to inevitably fall apart. It might work for some people in very certain situations and good on them for seeking help in the proper places, I’m not going to condescendingly lambast them for that, but I just personally find that it’s simply always easier to deal with everything alone. And if you can’t do even that much, then well…at least no one’s going to miss you.
ᵂʰᵉⁿ ʸᵒᵘ ˢᶦᵍⁿᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵒᵗᵗᵉᵈ ˡᶦⁿᵉ
ᴰᶦᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵏ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉˀ
ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʳᵘᵇ ᶦᵗ ᶦⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ
ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ’ᵗ ʰᵉˡᵖ ᵇᵘᵗ ˡᵃᵘᵍʰ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒʷ
ᵂᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ʷᶦˡˡ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉ
ᴵᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵇᵘˢᶦⁿᵉˢˢ
ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵇᵘˢᶦⁿᵉˢˢ ⁿᵒʷ·