I feel progressively worse as I write this blog, like a bandage has been ripped off a red, gaping wound that never really healed. The more I think about it, the more it starts to hurt again. It’s clear that I’ve been able to function socially by pretending the problem doesn’t exist.

I’ve started to notice small, subtle differences about my perception when going out to places like supermarkets and restaurants. I just wasn’t aware of these feelings before, and am not quite sure how to handle it. Certainly it makes me feel sad. For example, I’m actually hypervigilant about others’ perception of me, and rationalize their acceptance of me in every way I can (even when they clearly haven’t noticed me). I’m constantly pumping myself up into someone who’s not me, like a peacock spreading its feathers out. Only it’s all internal - I literally don’t strut around like a narcissist. Instead, I tell myself an ongoing narrative of how everyone would accept me if they noticed me. The problem is, the person in the narrative isn’t “good” or “bad.” He just doesn’t exist. The narrative has no real use whatsoever, and it’s what I would like to discard.

This leads to another problem. If this narrative, which gives me an artificial “skin” is removed, what’s underneath? I feel extremely vulnerable and defensive without the skin. Who then am I, really? I’ll tell you who I am… I’m someone with no future, who’s so weak he not only cannot defend himself, but neither can he defend his own family. For this reason he doesn’t deserve a family, but rather to be excommunicated and exiled to a place of loneliness. Maybe to a place where other unworthies are exiled, but probably to someplace worse than that. He will die as he lived, in wretched but justified misery, for he was born misshapen by his creator, and should have been exposed and left for dead long ago.

It’s all very unpleasant to think about. I’m now writing in isolation but my mind still can’t dwell on these thoughts for long, and drifts into a kind of pleasant denial.

An illusory life

I don’t face just one big problem but two. There’s the social vulnerability and potentially very harsh judgement of others. Then there’s the illusion I need so I can effectively function in society. Oftentimes if I don’t have this skin, illusion, narrative, or whatever you call it, I feel sad, irritable, and even nauseated. Somehow I’m not a total stranger to myself though. When I peel off the layers of self-deceit it’s more like taking off heavy, stifling clothing to see my own naked body but not wanting to look long because of the stark ugliness. If I’m not accustomed to looking then I don’t really know myself all that well. My true self is vaguely familiar but I have no real curiosity to know it better since it’s a source of shame to both me and everyone associated with me.

I never really learned how to handle negative feelings. I spent much of my childhood feeling lost, bored, and sad, but every once in a while something ugly would boil up inside. I remember an episode when I was twelve and something upset me. I can’t remember anymore what triggered it but I spent an entire evening in some kind of rage but not able to articulate it clearly. A part of me wanted to manipulate my parents into give me attention, make them feel sorry for me, but that apparently didn’t work. Instead of going to my room I preferred sitting in the kitchen in front of everybody. My parents asked what was wrong but I didn’t or couldn’t answer them. I just sat there and trembled until my face became pale. So they just made comments to the effect I “looked like something out of the Exorcist,” or “he has deep psychological problems.”

Despite their lack of attention it felt oddly relieving, if exhausting, to be in this state. My overriding feeling was a wish to destroy myself and sever my bonds with this ugly world, and sitting there in silence at the table and trembling, getting all the dark energy out of my body, was a new form of expression. As I relive all this I feel stressed and upset, and believe this episode was a precursor to my later depression. But at the time, I wanted to show my parents this because they ignored my suffering and that’s what made me this fucked up person. And I had a certain satisfaction in showing my father, in particular, that I became in fact not the strong boy he dreamed of but the weakling I turned out to be, directly because of him.

Self-acceptance as an avoidant

It feels strange to say this but somehow what I just described has turned out to be my entire life. How and why, I don’t know. Unlike other people (maybe), when I think of my true self there’s no hope or a bright future associated with it. Only dusk and tears. For me, courage means to acknowledge this fucked up person inside of me whom I cannot let out. Like a lot of boys, I too dreamed of going to the big war and being brave, but now I recognize what my own badge of courage is. It’s simply struggling to be myself every day. When there’s no hope and only failure is certain, and you insist on feeling the pain of being ashamed and socially awkward thoughout life without knowing why it’s all happening, then you are a courageous person.

Just for the record that’s not me. I’m not the guy to do that. But I think anyone who can do that is a saint.