Just Say No! (To relationships as an insecure person)

 I'm at that stage in life where I clearly recognize love as a fantasy, and you can call it "bitter".

I really don't give a damn.

If you have a lot of "love" (platonic or romantic) in your life, congratulations! You're probably just extremely useful in some way. You build someone's ego, you've got money, or you come from a good family, OR you two are just trying to spite someone else. People do not "love" for the sake of love. 

People only "love" people that mistreat them or are indifferent to their existence. Actual lovergirls will die out here trying to find a suitable receiver for all they have to offer. I'm not saying I'm the most unique or beautiful woman in the world, but as I've explained before on this blog, I'm at the very least reasonable and committed. There's no need for me to compile a grocery list of everything else that I am. Hell, I'm to the point where I'd rather create a fucking spreadsheet on an IBM computer before I intellectualize the fact I'm a person. 

I didn't ask to be here, and it seems quite clear to me no one wants me here anyway: not my rude ass mother, not my lame ass exes, not my former "friends." I exist in a fucking vacuum,

but I exist nonetheless. 

I've complained about my state of lovelessness for a decade now. No youth, no beauty, no pussy, no anything can make people care about you who simply don't want to. At least when my life was in shambles, I understood people avoiding the chaos. 

Now I'm "perfect" at best..."well enough" at worst, and still....here we are. I've ran out of things to blame it on, but I'm also not stupid enough to feel there's some deficit within me that people can sense. Quite the contrary, I think most people assume themselves unworthy of being around me, and they're likely right...but that has more to do with them and how they're handling their perceived shortcomings than it says about me.

Frankly, I should be grateful. At least the days of soul-absorbing sponges disguising themselves as comrades are behind me. That's because I'm honest enough to see it now. I know when I'm being approached to fulfill someone's projections or irrational fears. I know when someone is simply going to suck me dry, and that's most people. I know when I'm being lovebombed, and that's the rest of them...

I don't avoid people because I'm insecure. When I was insecure, I was the most open to what others had to bring and realized that what they brought for me was always bullshit. I'm done. 

Privacy is a prison. I’m a flexer at heart.

 

“Sometimes you gotta pop out and show n!ggas….” -Kendrick Lamar, “Not Like Us”

I’m not humble nor have I ever been. Humility was a defense mechanism I could use to cloak the fact I am indeed a bad b!tch: accomplished, ambitious, sexy. I was all these things before the world could accept my spunky, fabulous package. I reflect on my early diva days fondly: wearing platform wedges to 8th grade science, discovering Clinique mascara samples (still the best mascara I’ve ever used in life), getting first chair in band on a recurrent basis. 

Getting accepted to art school felt obvious: I was a good writer that needed refining and a space to evolve further into my destiny before adulthood could assuage my passion at worst, distract me at best. I’ve accomplished so much that I was able to still maintain a modicum of confidence during these hard years where so many inner and outer changes transpired for me and led to more questions than answers. Perhaps it’s my new car talking, but I think I’m over the hump. 

I say all that to say I grew a good relationship with confidence early on, and it’s one of the most beneficial relationships I’ve had to date. Even though it can’t supplement me doing the work to overcome some of my personal issues, it can see me through the tunnel. My only sadness is that I simply don’t announce anymore. Announcing feels performative even though I have every rhyme and reason to brag. I’ve learned to just let my work speak for itself. If my audience needs me to say I’m the best at whatever I’m doing, that’s not an audience I identify with. I love real life and real reactions to what I have to offer, and being private about how much I’m actually working can only benefit me.

Last Call

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm and Suicide

If you were to ask me why I've spent the majority of my life being so nonchalant toward men with the exception of a couple undeserving souls, I could offer you a plentiful list.

Nothing, however, and I do mean NOTHING, takes the cake over learning today that a nigga who tried to get in my pants in high school lied about his mom dying. I'm genuinely gagged---not because the attempt worked but because WHO goes to that length to get laid?

***

I wrote the above portion a couple weeks ago. The past couple of days is what really takes the cake over some garbage from high school. Here I am yet again looking at a motherf*cker I know shouldn't be in my life. It's not like I'm not willing to leave; he isn't. It complicates things because I technically can't force him to go, but I also dread the idea I've been coerced out of my own safe space. Home doesn't feel like home because it isn't. 

I haven't cut myself in years, and then boom. There I was just needing to escape being screamed at for this or for that. I can't keep up anymore. The overarching theme is always that I deserve it, that it's my fault. Talking too much or showing emotions or rejecting things that harm me means I deserve yelling and discord and violence. 

Evidently, I still haven't learned the place my father tried his best to show me with his own violence.

What's sad is that when I am willing to play the role--to be the miserable, self-loathing, thoughtless and speechless person that doesn't "deserve" violence---that's also not good enough because then I'm "overexaggerating" and things are still---you guessed it---my fault. I'm "causing my own pain" just by existing, which means they're basically telling me I only exist to endure pain. 

The expectation for me to be without reasonable boundaries is the reason I am so enraged. At every interval of my life, there are people who believe I'm supposed to let them trample over me simply because I exist, and there's something they don't like about it. I'm supposed to allow shallow relationships, unhealthy job environments, and familial drama. I'm supposed to be screamed at, accused, betrayed and never fight back. I'm supposed to die. They want me to die, and I guess it's not happening quickly enough. I genuinely believe most of the people I've ever known would be indifferent or relieved to learn of my Earthly absence.

No one loves me, and I'm not allowed to cry about it, talk about it, think about it, or even feel it. This is the only place I can come to, and it's not even a place.