It’s 3:30 on a Sunday Morning. I could’ve gone and worked out…but every time I step foot on the treadmill in such an abysmal state, I go about ten minutes before the sadness and despair dims the light on my imagination so that I can no longer endure the pain in my body.
As an adult…I’ve wept too many times this year and we’re not even six months in. Too many times I’ve battled depression and loneliness, too many times I’ve fallen and fell for the same traps, the same reoccurring battles with no end in sight. It’s only through my arrogance and anger that I persevere. It’s through my faith in God that things will be better that I keep pushing forward. But damn does it have to be this difficult?
I know I need to get out of that habit of talking about human beings as if I’m not one of them. I have my flaws and faults just like the next man. But how can I be born with such as strong conscience, such a strong desire to protect and endure pain to shield others from it, while at the same time resenting those who I strive to help?
How could Jesus Christ do it? To be nailed to the cross and executed for all of mankind, while most of mankind has no idea what he did or the immense significance of his sacrifice? While most of mankind shows no gratitude for the gift of forgiveness. Is that what it means to truly be selfless? If so, how does one attain such a virtue?
Recently, I’ve made several self-discoveries. The first…is a counter-attack on that cliché statement I’ve been hearing all too much.
“Rock, you got to put yourself out of your comfort zone.”
The thing about that with me is, that I’m never truly comfortable. I keep hearing people talk about how one has to put themselves out of their comfort zone. But to what extent? If you are happy, does that mean you are comfortable? If you are at peace, does that mean you are satisfied? As much crap as I get from people for deliberately putting myself in harm’s way (just to see if I can handle it, I’m not a masochist) must I consistently martyr myself in an arena where I know defeat is certain, all just to escape that proverbial “comfort zone”?
Moreover, why do some people have it in their heads that everyone must be comfortable at everything? Some people like to congregate in large groups and be a part of the crowd, they’re comfortable with it. Does this mean that we must pathologize those who like to keep to themselves and stay out of sight?
I believe when people tell me to put myself out of my comfort zone, they mean well…but truly they have no clue about the magnitude of weight and burden on my shoulders. I suppose that’s my own fault. Unlike the years that have past, I no longer like to talk about myself except to a select close few. The ones who truly care, and are not just looking for a source of entertainment.
The other thing I discovered about myself…is that while it’s true that I have this unshakeable proclivity to over-analyze…this does not mean my deductions, my discernments or the conclusions I come to are wrong. The reason why I’m constantly questioning myself is because…I think so badly, I don’t want to be known as arrogant, or vain or paranoid, because a lot of the conclusions I come to would make me seem as such.
The reality of it, however, is that my deductions are usually right on the money. The frustration takes over when I see the evidence, the body language and the choice of words used by others and simply ignore it just to avoid any conclusion that would make me seem or feel superior than others. Like a girl who has a crush on me. Or why someone doesn’t like me. Or why someone is afraid of me. Or why someone tries their best to stay close to me or in my good graces.
You have to understand. I don’t look for evidence. It just stands out to me. If something doesn’t fit, or belong or make sense, my mind dwells on it like white blood cells attacking a virus just to get to the bottom of it and figure out what’s what.
This is what leads to my sadness, I think. That which is unsaid, yet it exists in my world. I see what others hide and acknowledge that which they would deny to the brink of death. Out of fear, of course. And I can’t blame them for being afraid. I just hope they accept…I just hope they acknowledge to themselves the truth. And believe me when I say, I’m aware.
There’s so much I still want to say, not about my deductions or that stupid concept of comfort zone…but something else. It’s related to my family. Should I reveal? I spoke to my dad about this…and yet. It doesn’t seem to be enough at the moment. The boulder caving in my chest still remains. I want to reveal it so badly, yet, if the parties I’m referring to reads it, they may become greatly saddened…not disappointed or angry with me…just sad. And to me, that’s worst. I’ve had family members angry and disappointed with me. I can take that all fucking day. But to know I’ve caused one of my loved ones to cry…would kill me.
So badly, I want them to know the burden I carry just to protect or keep them happy. But if I did, it would make them sad. Inside my heart, a tortured and chained voice roars out in agony, begging to be set free. The chains are my conscience holding the monster at bay. Lol…death can be kind (I’m not suicidal, don’t worry). The best remedy for this sort of heartache is to abandon all thoughts of ever attaining true happiness with human beings. I wonder if that’s what they mean by putting God first. I wonder if I started reading the Bible, making an effort to draw closer to God, primarily because at this point, I’ve let go of humans…No. That’s not 100% true. I at least have three who…I at least have two who I can count on.
I’m sorry I can’t be the friend, brother, nephew, cousin, lover, boyfriend, admirer you’d like me to be. I wish I could call you or hang out with you on a daily basis. I wish I could pursue you and commit my time and efforts in loving you. But I can’t right now. I’m an author of the highest caliber and while working two jobs, I have but two days to create. The project I’m working on is the biggest project I’ve ever embarked on. I knew it would take years when I started it and I accepted it. But I want you to know it’s just for this point in time. It’s May 17, 2015. I’m only 28. This prolonged suffering and isolation will not be forever.
I swear, that one day I will be accomplished and rich and successful. My books will sell by the millions. Studios will fight to attain the rights to my stories. Future generations will have to write book reports about my life just to graduate high school. And in that time, I promise I will reach out to you and be the man you want me to be if and only if you maintain favor in me. Only if you believe in me from start to finish.
And there’s just one more thing to consider. Everyone has their own world. You got your world (life.) and I have mine. No matter what you think, no matter how much you feel entitled to, or how much you feel I owe you. The opinion that matters the most to me in my world is my own. This should apply to you and your opinion as well.
Even as I type this, there are too many people who think they hold some claim over my heart just because I let them think they mean the world to me, or that they’ve beaten me. I let them think this because it’s convenient and its gets them off my back if they believed they’ve conquered me, as if I see them as my superiors or an object of desire.
This is a theory I’m testing from one of my friends who seems to believe that people want what they can’t have. If they can have me, then they won’t want me right? Or so I thought…Whether or not they want me isn’t the problem. I don’t care about that, one way or the other. It’s the malice, the ill-intent that I take offense to. I whisper to myself, “…the audacity…”
Alright so…You see how fucked up these thoughts are? I went from sad to insightful to angry to hopeful to spiteful just like that. Hahaha! As one of my female friends would say here, “Uh! Rock. We can’t take you anywhere!”
Hahaha! In truth, I was really sad when I first started writing this. I admit that there is an air of self-importance in me, but that’s alright. In five years time, you and the rest of the world will know why and understand. And now I feel so much better. Such is the therapeutic power of writing to me. Even if there are no ears to listen so early on a Sunday morning…a blank piece of paper will do the trick.