As much as I try and try and try to connect on a deeper level with people I feel so shunned. It's never been that easy for me because of how I've constructed myself. How I've strived to be an ideal (at least, relative to me) person. There is 'Ideal' Zack and 'Real' Zack; 'Ideal' being only one part of my 'Real' self.
Everybody has there own baggage and I don't want to be the one who throws their own on to someone else (I should hope that anyone that reads this considers this as throwing my baggage to someone else - I mainly consider Xanga to be a place I can share my feelings both privately and publicly, IE I am alone but feel like there is someone to listen.) In doing that however, I have also been taking others problems onto my own - because that's what I need to be: Unbreakable. Invincible. Able to handle all of humanity's hatred and their tears. I must be kind and compassionate, I must help those that I care about and love and I must put all above my own selfish actions. In doing this though, I've realized that I'm just trying to protect myself from other's hatred by taking it all on myself. I punish myself mentally for my own mistakes and sometimes for the mistakes of others. I cannot stand being a failure in anyway to someone else's eyes. I will always try. I cannot give up on people.
But I am breaking. I am tearing at the seams and the life is pouring out of me as the stuffing is squeezed out of a teddy bear. It is because I protect myself - It is BECAUSE I HAVE to be 'Ideal' and not simply just nice and empathetic, that I am scraping at my own scabs. No one understands me because I refuse to let them. However, at the same time, although I still consciously try and reach out to people that I consider close friends, I am alienated. Every. Single. Time.
I'm suffering for all of this too - my academic performance is dropping drastically compared to previous years. And it's not because the coursework is harder, I'm still in mainly 100-level courses. I may have fairly good skills when it comes to many of my classes, but without a mental state to hold it all together, I'm no better than the bottom of the food chain. And Life doesn't mind swallowing my whole if I let it.
I tried sharing some of my neurotic behavior with one of my friends a couple weeks ago. Nothing really 'freaky' or 'creepy', just that I was interested in all the different sounds that people's footsteps make. I thought it an interesting practice, perhaps maybe even for an audio art piece. However, the response I received was "weird".
It's not even that she used the word "weird", it's that she said it with such disdain, and such disgust that I regressed back into my partial self - my 'Ideal' self. I had to - she wanted it so.
I can't even talk to my parents either (something I'm sure many of you all are familiar with). My Mom is a straightforward 'Solution-giver'. She listens, oh yes, she does, but she doesn't read between the lines. Instead, she constantly just pours out a stream of logical 'solutions' that are just supposed to help me with my problems. She doesn't seem to understand that I just need someone to sit down, shut up and just LISTEN to me. Let ME pour MY heart out without alienating me.
My Dad's not much better - he's better at listening, I think, but when it comes to solutions he's very logical and has almost no emotional consideration in what I should be doing to get back on track.
You know why I need Xanga? It is because I feel that at least this empty virtual space is listening to me. That someone out there is just listening. Not giving me crap for what I'm feeling - not making me feel like a freak. They're just listening. There's no hug or comfort in it, but it's more than I've gotten from the people I see on a daily basis.
I'm so lonely. I'm so fucking lonely. I'm so Goddamn fucking lonely.
And I can't even ask anyone to do anything about it.
In a world where rage rages on. In a place where hatred is our protest.
This is a world where I feel my art must remind us. Remind us of the beauty that we can sometimes take for granted. Remind us that fantasy is not a bad thing, That it can teach us how to believe, And to hope, And to give.
And when that day comes where anger no longer lingers, And spite wanders away, I shall make something different, Until a day where the loathing returns.
I bloom. I shrivel.
If I should bloom again, It will be with pen in hand.
