I had a lot to say yesterday but stopped at 500 words. Then I kept on thinking. But what was I thinking about?
Yesterday I called my True Self a bitch – which may be a little unfair. She’s just… I didn’t really hear from her much last night. I woke about half four, got up and had the last of my antibiotics and a drink of water, played a programme on iPlayer, dozed off at some point then woke up before the end and tried to rewind but couldn’t get the touch screen on my phone to respond properly (common problem),finally managed to get it back further than I wanted to then played to the end and by this time it was getting on for 7, so got up and sorted out a few things in the bedroom then had breakfast, hung the washing out, came on here and faffed about some more.
I started thinking about despair yesterday. It was very strong yesterday morning. Where does it come from and why? What is the shape of it? Absence of love. Inability to accept love because it is directed at the lover’s perception of who I am, not the true me. The true me is loved by no one, including me. All love is conditional on conforming to the lover’s idea of who I should be.
The sense that when I’m giving of myself, the truest I can be, the ideas, feelings, thoughts inside me, everything I have to offer is not wanted, not understood, rejected, ignored, discarded. Valueless. If no one else can see and value who I am, how can I? I am lost, I am nothing.
When I was young I hoped one day that someone would understand me, see me for who I am. I can only be myself, after all, I can’t be anyone else. So love me for who I am. But who ever wants to do that? Instead they would rather tell me the person they love is me. But then what happens when they see the true me? When they realise I can’t live up to their idea? They get angry and tell me to stop being like this, they want me to be like that. Love is conditional on my ability to live up to what they want. This is the crux of everything.
I have tried for so long. And I get angry and frustrated and afraid and lonely. Because who am I really? Who am I if I can’t be who you want me to be? I can only be myself.
So, I will be myself. I will do everything I can to be myself. People will not like this. They will try to ‘help’ me, to ‘encourage’ me, but they won’t succeed. I will be myself and I will write about my true feelings. I can’t write short stories or novels or funny little snippets. I will write about myself and they won’t read it, but that’s fine.