Jan 22, 2020
I’m starting to see past it… the long shadow of Nell, or the moon, as I’ve now symbolically dubbed her. As great as the moon is, I realize there are other, larger celestial bodies in the universe. For the longest time, I could see only darkness, standing in the epicenter of her eclipse. Now, as the moon slowly rolls away, the first rays of sun peek out, its crisp brightness just hinting at an enormous source of strength and power. It sounds a bit dramatic, doesn’t it? 🙂
I’ve been working at a desk in an office for nearly four years. The work itself is insignificant, although there are those who’d likely query that claim. There’s a lot of toxicity embedded within the very foundations of hierarchy, within authoritarian structure and company culture… a lot of fascinating nuances of thought control and power dynamics with which you could fill several books. But ultimately, it’s a distraction… something that doesn’t exactly line up with my rebellious, inquisitive nature (courteously nourished & encouraged by George Carlin). I need to realign myself with my goals and values.
I want to lead a cult. A cult that isn’t a cult. A cult that stands for exactly the opposite of what cults usually stand for. An anti-cult. One based on reason and strength to the individual. Something that empowers people with truth they can experience first-hand. I want to do this for philosophical reasons, but if I’m being honest, the bigger reason is that I just want a family.
There’s no one out here to support me except for myself. I’m totally alone. That was my choice. I’m not passing judgement on it one way or the other, but at the beginning and end of every day, it’s just me. I need to build a support network of people whom I can rely on. I need friends, and the best way to get friends is to be a friend, hence the desire to start an anti-cult. I’m going to call it the Sunshine Club.
It’s all connected. The music, the club, even these late night thirst-fests for emotional closure that I keep scribbling down in the dead of night. I want the club for the social support network, so I can maintain a relationship in the future. I want my music to be successful so that I’ll have passive proof that I’ve had positive feedback in my life, and therefore my potential partner will feel that much safer knowing she’s making a good decision by choosing me. I keep a journal with my deepest struggles and feelings, so that she’ll know I’m not hiding anything.
It’s all connected to her. Not Nell anymore, but the idealized role she was fulfilling in my psyche as the perfect partner. She’s me, in a way. And in a way not. She’s based on the real Nell, bolstered by the values of truth and love that emanated from her, which I then perfected and subsequently projected back onto a new, consolidated image of her. I extended her values to their natural conclusive realizations… i.e. filled in the blanks of what a perfect mate would be like. The act of doing that was my creation. In an analogy of an artist, she would be the idea upon which a painter bases his portrait on. She is Jesus, and I created The Last Supper. Well… maybe not. She’s the girl, and I created the Mona Lisa. Not a perfect example either, but close enough. It works if you don’t scrutinize it.
It’s just been so long. I’m coming up on 30 years. Maybe I’ve been fucking around too much. I haven’t worked hard enough. I’m still not ready for a relationship. What have I been doing for the past 12 years? I look back at these pages and come to an 18 year old me. I remember who I was then. Aside from a few changes, I’m essentially the same person. I have more or less the same difficulties and challenges. Then I look back even further. I’m 8 years old, wishing my crush would pay attention to me, but believing that even if she did I wasn’t deserving enough and didn’t have the skill to hold her attention for any length of time. When will I ever learn?
I’m 14 again, pining over Jane. And 11 again, admiring an older girl from across the lunch room. It’s always the same, lame old story. I want to get better. I want to be normal. I want control over my life. Somehow, I always run out of time. The window of opportunity to express myself disappears before I can summon the raw force of will necessary to break free from my shackles. And I’m 8 again, crushed by the metaphysical weight of social pressure and sensitivity.
In a bizarre synchronization of time, I’m able to remember what it was like to be myself from all these different periods. I’m all of these versions of myself, contained in one body, simultaneously crying out for mercy. When will it ever be enough? I’ve conquered my selective mutism; I’ve defeated my body insecurities; I’ve come to terms with my ethnicity and race; I’ve fixed my teeth; I’ve pretty much figured out out my sexuality; I’ve shed the social ties from my past that’s kept me in moral stasis; I’ve even accepted my thinning hair. What more do I have to do?
They’re cosmetic victories. I’m still the 5 year old Kindergartener, wondering why I’m so completely alien to this world that others, both kids and adults, seem so comfortably familiar with. That’s a good word to describe how I was feeling. I felt like an alien. The world that my parents inhabited and the white, extroverted, Christian, school world before me were two cultures moving in opposite directions, in opposite galaxies. I had to be quiet and careful and observant and learn to fit in. That paradigm hasn’t changed. How can anyone ever understand me when I’m so … completely and utterly different? All of my actions to this day feed this deep-seated compulsion to be understood.
I want love. I want the family. I just don’t feel good enough after being rejected and rejecting myself for so long. I’ve never felt good enough. I’ve clawed my way out from the bottom of a black pit of despair, and trotted along at a steady pace to where I am now. I still don’t feel good enough yet for people to even want to understand me. I feel like I’ve almost reached the mountaintop, but I’m told that even once I get there, I still won’t feel satisfied.
Regardless, I still have to make the journey, don’t I? I never want to be content in just standing still on the side of this mountain. After all, I’d slowly roll back down due to gravity. And at the top, the only way to go is down. Maybe the only answer is to climb to the top, and then retire at the bottom after you no longer have to prove yourself. Although, I’ve never questioned why I have to climb the mountain at all. That part just seems to be human nature.
Honestly, I’m barely out of that pit of despair. I’ve stood upright, and I’m walking, trying to be normal. And I am now somewhat normal, I suppose. This is it. I’m now at the point where everyone else started at when they were young, at break even. I haven’t even started climbing the mountain yet… I’ve just emerged from a random hole in the ground that I was stuck in for years. I do see others stuck in holes, and others emerging from the holes. I realize I’m not the only one who started out with a deficit in life. Though many have it worse than I do, I can’t stop and help them, can I? As much as I want to. I have to keep pushing, and climbing the mountain. Push past everyone. Climb as high as I can, and then return to the bottom only after achieving all that I can. Then I’ll be able to tell all those still trapped in their respective pits of despair, “Don’t stop. You do have one advantage that I didn’t have. And that’s me.”