Being Emo and I Apologize

I had the movie The Elephant Man on tonight last night. Dea came home towards the end and stopped in the doorway. She knows it is one of the movies that I don’t watch so much as cry-my-way-through. And she asked, point blank, “why do you do it to yourself?”

And it’s a valid question, I suppose. I don’t know why I do it to myself. Masochism? Catharsis? Maybe I just need permission to cry. No idea.

There are select movies that can cause me to weep through them. I love them, but they cannot be watched very often. I only put them on when I need to work something out of my system. And my watching is not limited because I weep uncontrollably, but because they do something to me, alter me for a little while. I get extremely introspective. It's almost like defragmenting myself. I do a self-assessment. I explore all those negative sectors. It takes a while. When I'm done, I'm better for it, a little more organized, possessing a little better perspective. But to get to the better end, I fall apart, mentally, emotionally.

When I went to bed last night, I was still in this highly vulnerable state. And Dea, angel that she is, came in to check on me. She settled herself beside me, her arm over me, her head against my chest, and I broke down and cried at her for who knows how long, interrupted only by my profuse apologizing. I'm not even sure what I was crying about, if I was crying about anything specific, or if I was apologizing for crying or for something else entirely.

She ended up spending the night (all completely chaste). I woke to her, still wrapped up in my arms, still sleeping. And I felt so much better. And so much worse. And I wanted to weep all over again. For all that love and all that trust, no matter how equally matched we are in both for each other, I don't feel worthy of it. I don't think we idolize each other. I think we are both too aware of each other's faults to consider even thinking of each other as paragons. But she adores me in a way I cannot comprehend because I'm not exceptional in any way, not extremely talented, not extremely patient, not even extremely kind.

For all that I am older and stronger than she and the most responsible member of the household, I'm not very good at this life-thing. I blunder my way through it. I pretend at confidence. I fake joy. Even when I am closest to bliss, like this morning with her contentedly beside me, I ache with an inexplicable misery. And it sounds so emo, I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I know how to be happy. I am sure I have the potential to be, but I don't know how to access it. And maybe that's why I watch films that destroy me, because I'm looking for something I cannot find so it's better to take it all apart and sort through it one item at a time.

Complicated Insecurities

anonymous said:

You say you have a lot of insecurities. Are they because of your scarring? They shouldn't be. You're very good looking. 

First of all, Anon, thank you.

Secondly, I am sorry I did not reply right away since I needed a time when I could sit down and answer this properly.

Thirdly, I am now going to answer this properly:

I have a lot of things going on in my offline life that I don’t talk about much online. I get frequent anxiety attacks. I have severe chronic depression. I have a history of eating disorders and even though I have more or less moved beyond those at least, I still have a very complicated and unhealthy relationship with the rest of my body (not just my face) and with eating in general. I have a number of physical conditions that cause a lot of concern and require strict and constant monitoring. And I don’t talk about this stuff because it makes me uncomfortable and because they are not things I can solve or overcome by talking about it online. These things are purely internal.

My scarring on the other hand is completely external. People see it. People respond to it. People treat me accordingly. I have internalized my experiences with it, but if no one could see it, it would never affect me. Maybe it too isn’t something that can be, as I said above, solved or overcome by talking about it online, but it can be addressed online in a way that better equips me when I deal with other people’s responses and reactions to it offline.

With that said, it may surprise you that I don’t think about the scarring that much unless I’m reminded of it. My scarring as a self-initiated thought? That pretty much happens only when I’m concerned for my safety, when I am getting ready to go out into the populace, or when I’m about to be introduced to someone new (or the random incidental like when I went out to the diner with Sandy). But that is pretty much all. At home, or out and busy doing errands, or at work, or anywhere with people I know and like, or at dad’s university, or even in one location for a good period of time, I forget completely. Yes, the scars pull. I feel them all the time, but it has become background noise at this point, until something reminds me.

Being reminded of it happens often, so it is often on my mind. Aesthetically, as you complimented me upon my appearance, the scars, on the whole of things, aren’t much, but some people fret over a zit, and some people fret over unevenly shaped eyebrows, and other people worry about their makeup and go out and buy special waterproof products just to keep it perfect, and other people want to make sure they don’t have chocolate at the corners of their mouths, or food in their teeth, and those are such small things and yet, they are still thought about, sometimes insecure about. And the scars, for whatever else they are, are noticeable, deliberate, and for many, more than a little disturbing. And it is not something I can simply avoid.

When I’m in the grocery store and parents pull their children noticeably out of my way and stare at me like I’m a plague-carrier? I notice. I know why they’ve done that. I think about the scarring. I get self-conscious and anxious and insecure. When unimaginative teens start calling me names and then kick me when I ignore them while I am trying to enjoy a concert in the park, I know why they’ve done it. They have already spent a good ten to twenty minutes telling me why they did it. I think about the scarring. I think about how much I would like to wear a bandanna like a bandit in a Western so that such things won’t happen again, but then I think about the times I have done so in the past and been stopped by the cops. I think about having to take my scarf down and being stared at by many more people who would otherwise not have bothered looking up. And even thinking about it now makes me shake and feel sick to my stomach in panic. When we have new temps at work and they meet me in-makeup and then catch up with me after my hours and their faces drain because they didn’t realize when the first met me that I was scarred, I notice. When I pass people on the sidewalk and they involuntarily touch their mouths, I notice. I remember why. I touch my own. And when other people touch it, for as rare as it is, usually Simona or Dea or some other family member, I remember and I feel guilty. I get even more insecure then and I want to hide, not because they don’t understand, but because they do, and I am grateful. I just want to give them better than I’ve got. So when I say that I am a huge mess of insecurities, I mean it, for many reasons, some more visible than others.

The Need for Company

I am a complete introvert. I grew up alone. I am good with my own company. But I spend so much of my time on my own that I often feel desperate for any kind of social interaction and I don’t often get it. The few people I count as friends don’t live within the vicinity and those acquaintances that do are perfectly amenable to talking online or coming over the apartment or me going to theirs but never wish to go out and do everyday normal-person things with me. Now, maybe there are legit reasons for that, but it feels so personal, like they’re embarrassed to be seen with me.

I usually do not ask for company idly, especially if, as I suspect, it is an uncomfortable request, but company, in addition to being reassuring and emotionally necessary to some degree, has proved to be very useful. Whether it’s doing errands around the city or taking public transit, when I am by myself, I tend to be ignored, dismissed, or harassed. When I am with someone else, people treat me better, like a person who might be worth a modicum of dignity. I don’t know what phenomenon causes this, but I imagine that it’s because other people can see how the people I know interact with me and take cues from them.

I feel terrible saying I’m lonely and feeling isolated, especially with Philandros pressed up against my leg and Dea on the couch petting my hair. I had always hoped that someday, Dea would be the one to be at my side to help ease my anxieties but while I know she loves me, she’s seven years my junior and has her own life and her own crowd, and as much as I would like to present myself to her as a possibility for more than mere domestic stability, she’s already seeing someone and I feel so unworthy, for so many reasons.

Sometimes she is the reason I feel so alone.