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The thing about paranoia is: it’s sneaky, because what you fear is not really impossible, but it is never certain either.

It’s doubt, slithering under your skin, coiling around your stomach, overburdening your restless mind, speeding up your heart – for the wrong reasons.

It’s a loop of questions, a fidgety stream of words, a fretful search for evidence, for proof of being right or wrong, for potential.

It clouds your judgement, it distorts your judgement, it causes prejudgment.

It’s an assumption, but your life revolves around it with actions, feelings and thoughts strong enough to make the nightmare come true. It’s just an assumption, but it becomes your reality. You start elaborating grief, when no death has occurred, you start accepting the change, when the change has never come to happen, you plan your future on a present that never was.

And there goes the additional disquiet that you cannot trust your mind. Are you imagining things? Are you the obsessive nutjob? Or is it your instincts talking to you? Are you the only one seeing this? Does nobody else know hot to handle these things? Is it happening to me? Is it? IS IT?

You know, deep inside, that perception is telling you something is missing, that you may not be right, that you may have dreamt it all up, that you shouldn’t freak out over things before they happen. Because you know, they haven’t happened yet. Because if they had, there would be facts. Not doubts, not sensations, not hunches, facts. In all their unleashed ugliness. But your fear is no more than sweet anticipation.

Your fear is a cover up. Your obsession is not what you fear, your obsession is an excuse, it’s so evident and undeniable that every soul in the world would grant you pity and recognise your difficulty.

But the issue is subtler. It’s tiny, it’s ridicule, it’s inappropriate, it’s shameful, it’s unacceptable. It’s human. Yet we can’t possibly face something as harmless as human weakness, so we hide behind the inhumane. We imagine ourselves victims of the highest crimes to justify our petty suffering. We deprive ourselves of the joy of life and confirm our necessity of punishment, of atonement.

And we hope, sometimes, that our haunting fears would come true already, so we could stop once and for all to hurt ourselves and let others do it, while we try to finally love and protect our own.

The blunt truth is I am resistant to positiveness.

On some twisted level, I must like sorrow and self pity very much. I see this is what I am doing. I thought about my last post quite a while, because I have been reading other blogs and making comparisons is natural. I know what it is about other blogs I like, I know why some words inspire me and other don’t. It’s seeing a process lurking under the words, understanding how the writer got to those conclusions after a more or less painful development and learned from the process. Learned how to be better, to feel better, to love and accept more and possibly hate less.

I keep hating.

I want to love so badly, or I say I do, but I just don’t do it. Maybe I’m really not ready, maybe I just hide behind this and find excuses not to do it, not to be proactive in this. Funny how admitting this is yet another self deprecation…

I also noticed how using and abusing the word “I” instead of any other type of pronoun or generalised subject doesn’t let other people empathise that much. As much as I have already stated that this blog is meant to be written rather than read, maybe literally getting over myself could help in the end.

And while the purpose of this blog was originally just venting and analysing the feelings behind my thoughts, and while accepting that venting is better than keeping everything locked inside and letting hate erode and rot you from the inside out, maybe trying to distill positiveness out of negative feelings may indeed help convince myself of looking at the brighter side of things. Because right now, I think I lost this skill, and I did acquire some, if not the whole of it.

I lost some hope in love, too and feel like my guiding light was blown out. I believe I want and need to feel love, yet I doubt that I am able to give and accept that much. While I identify the couple as a symbol of stability and belonging, I can’t not think of how I couldn’t manage the couple I had and fear I will never really be able to.

I love the idea of love, but what life has shown me about it doesn’t look like that idea in the least. When I see couples now, I think most of them don’t love each other but simply need the presence of someone, I think that they stick together after years because it’s more comfortable and safer than rejecting settlement for their real desires, I see people resenting each other still dragging their feet along beside each other, unable or unwilling to break free. I see endurance, resignation, routine and blind acceptance.

I understand a lifetime together cannot be spent as carelessly and dreamily as the first few months of a relationship, but nobody seems to be interested in asking themselves if the advantages exceed the disadvantages anymore. Everybody has this urge and urgency to settle down, once they hook a fish they take for granted it’s going to be forever and cannot be bothered by anything else.

I’m afraid, that’s the only real way it can happen. I’m afraid asking yourself too many questions sooner or later will necessarily lead to answering “no, it’s not what I really want”, that settling for the greater good of being able to start a family takes precedence over the person you find to start it with. This makes me believe that “forever” will never be. And right now, I’m fine with it. I don’t want to start a family, I would like to have a companion. The person matters the most to me, I don’t need financial support, I don’t need a reliable husband to come home to the children every night. I want someone who can make me happy, who I can make happy with my presence, with my emotional support, with my being. But in the long run, what it means is figuring out life on my own, accepting that love will only be present in my life as short, sweet brackets in time. If I could be fine with it, I guess I could be happy with living love really to the bone and never settling for anything less than the real thing.

 

P.S. The fact that I received a “like” from a user named “Fat Doctor” after writing a post about how I don’t get enough attention from men is plainly insulting.

June was a good month, as per my own admission.

July is somewhat different. I feel like I am waiting around for other stuff to happen. There is no skating, there is no LARPing, there is no travelling, everything is happening after July. It was supposed to be my relax month, as sure as hell I am not going to get any relax in ‘Nam, still I am as tired as ever. I am not getting enough sleep, because of the temperatures, because of the noise of sleeping with an open window, because I am going out too much. I have too many errands to run, as I put off to this point many of the preparatory activities for the holidays and stuff I generally didn’t have time to do earlier.

I haven’t been able or haven’t been bothered to do any training activity. I was supposed to go running, but I either don’t have time or the necessary energy at the end of the day, or it’s too hot, or I can’t find the right time before or after dinner. So I also probably accumulated stress.

My emotional stress as of late also comes from a different thought. I am tired of never been liked by anybody. It’s not the first time I address this, but it feels like  it used to be much  blurrier than it is now. Now, it’s all I see. I am tired of hearing stories of people who casually hook up and start kissing, people who succumb to chemistry at a hand shake, people who get chosen by guys who literally have dozens of girls at their feet. I am tired of hearing of people being asked on dates, being chatted up at bars, being asked their number on the tube.

This is not the world I know.

The world I know is populated by handsome men who don’t even look my way, by uglier women than me getting all the attention, by boys and girls who start talking to each other in front of me while I am the one left looking on the side. My telephone number would be covered in dust, if it was an object. My lips don’t even remember what it feels like to be touched.

My problem is that I am way too empirical.

Sometimes I really feel beautiful. I feel it in the way I walk, in the way I set my shoulders, in the way my eyes look with just a hint of eyeshadow. But I can not believe that I truly am unless I have evidence. Evidence cannot be subjective. I cannot believe something is true just because I am convinced it is true. That evidence doesn’t exist.

Each time I go back home after a night out, it doesn’t exist, each time I compare notes on my sexual past with others, it doesn’t exist, each time I think of how many people I liked never liked me back, it doesn’t exist. Until I look in the mirror and it doesn’t exist.

And I’ve been thinking about this. Let’s assume for a second that I am not the problem, that it’s the entirety of the male kind who is too blind, too stupid, too shy, too engaged to see what they’re missing. It doesn’t matter. Still, I am left unable, prohibited to enjoy the pleasure of having my femininity appreciated. And it hurts.

Some people don’t care, some people have settled with the idea of not corresponding to beauty standards, some people believe that true beauty is within. I care, I hate settling and… I am not entirely convinced my problem is on the outside either. I may be overly empirical, but I am also objective and I see how I could be considered better looking than a good portion of other women in my age group. So where does the problem really lay?

What stings more is that I don’t think what I am, who I am is ugly and I despise the idea of changing just to be liked more. I am tired of perceiving the need to change mysself. But for the love of God I cannot understand how I am not supposed to think I am somehow wrong. Because it doesn’t make any sense. If I am cute, not steaming hot, but cute and all in all a nice, interesting person, how can being constanly rejected and neglected be the story of my life?

I am not looking for prince fucking charming, I don’t want to settle down and start a family, this is not the typical situation where “Mr. Right comes when you least expect it”. Fuck Mr. Right, if possible I want Mr. Seriously Wrong and So Much Fun. Right now I am as easy about this as I could ever be. But ultimately, what I want doesn’t even seem to matter. Either way, nothing is coming.

Just the other day I was thinking about how felt I had lost so much time not having enough fun with men, how now that I can I would like to taste different types, just for once, just to know what it feels like. I don’t know… fully tattoed left arm and back, metalhead long hair, 6’3″ of muscles à la Eric Northman, a waterpolo player, an Hawaiian surfer… but no, actually I can’t. Not really. Because it’s not like I can actually choose. I thought I could, I thought it was just a matter of wanting it. Truth is, I’m not enough. And each time I realise that I hate myself for even thinking it would have been possible.

I would like to spend a few words on my followers.

I noticed the other day there are some 17 people following my blog; people I do not know personally and who most probably live on the opposite side of the globe. People who must have been inspired by something they read on one of my pages and decided they may enjoy reading a little more. Some of their blogs I particularly appreciate and I am humbled and surprised that they are interested in what I write.

Thank you.

It means a lot to me, since I am no professional writer and intend this blog only as a collection of venting outbursts.

I haven’t been writing much lately, maybe because I am just enjoying the relative quiet currently reigning in my mind, but I have been reading a lot. I find enormous inspiration in other people’s thoughts and it feels like I can always learn important lessons from all of those who are willing to share their experiences with the rest of the world.

Mostly, I hope I can be an inspiration to some as well. If this blog had to have a purpose other than being my personal emotional waste bin, I’d like it to be an additional help to any seeker of truth out there.

My late lack of posts notwithstanding, June has been a very “full” month. Or maybe it was so full, I had no time to put into words all that has been happening.

First came LARPing.
This may well seem a normal nerdy/geeky/dorky activity, but it entailed going back to my ex husband’s hometown, more precisely, to the exact same location where we got married. I entered the same garden, after some 400 days, all dressed up and made up again, holding a sword and a shield instead of a tulip bouquet. And there I rewrote history. What was supposed to be the quintessential remnant of failure became the symbol of new beginnings, of clean slates and second chances. It became proof that things can change, that stepping out of the loop is possible and that I am in power to manipulate my life to lead it wherever I want, even retracing steps I thought had collapsed.

Then came Vietnam.
Not Mexico, not Indonesia, Vietnam. The first proper journey after my honeymoon, my first time in Asia, my first time travelling for the simple sake of experience. And the Nth time I had to loath my mother because she HAD to say that she was scared about Maddie and I going alone, regardless of the terrorism she always triggers. Nonetheless, we are going.

Then came Marcel’s revelation.
Enough said in my previous post.

Then came the separation hearing.
I decided I didn’t want to think about it. Or rather, I just didn’t, as I know all too well that I can’t really control where my thoughts are headed. It was basically like getting married: it’s not the ceremony, it’s the decision to do it that changes the state of things. So yeah, it felt like a mountain on my shoulders to say “no” when the judge asked looking straight in my eyes whether a reconciliation was possible. But it didn’t change things, it didn’t feel as if it was wrong, or too soon, or uncertain.
Later that night I had dinner with my ex husband and we talked a lot, probably more freely than I’d ever done before. Because I have analysed the whole situation more, because I feel more detached now, because it is plain to see that it was the right and the only choice. The fact that he is desperately trying to get a new job at the other end of the planet does scare me, because even if he denies it, it speaks volumes of what he wants from me right now. And while it’s true that not much would change in terms of practical arrangements, it makes me wonder whether a do-not-resuscitate approach would be smarter and more proper.

Then came New York.
The reign of tanned, tattooed, trained, totally awesome biceps… and ugly faces.
Every one asks me if I liked the city and I don’t really know what to answer, because really, it wasn’t that much about the city. It was about facing an intercontinental flight alone for the first time after 13 years, it was about strengthening a friendship, it was about doing something good for myself as travelling can be. And I did like the city. When my flight approached JFK I had a glimpse of the skyline and all I could think about was “why the hell haven’t I thought of this sooner?”. But it wasn’t just for the Empire State and the Chrysler, it was about wondering why I had stopped travelling altogether, because this is something I have so rarely done with my ex husband. The excitement that a new travel brings is unparalleled and I needed this sweet escape the day after my separation hearing. And yes, I couldn’t help looking at men while I was there. It must have been the whole Sex-and-the-City effect, I thought men in NYC would be great. I was wrong. Don’t get offended, I am sure there are plenty of wonderful males out there and I just lacked serendipity but I was just a little disappointed, I expected… you know… the American dream. Sorry guys, Europeans do it much better.
But oh man, the sushi was great!

Then came my new therapist.
In retrospect, June was a “good” month: I was relatively calm and positive, probably due to all the innovations and the decisions taken. But May wasn’t and in one of the deep pits where I fell, I realised it could be a good idea to join group therapy sessions. So I asked my current therapists for a reference and ended up at my first appointment. It is all part of that master plan where I physically need to engage in attempts to help myself get out of this hard place where I have found myself in for the past few months. It was uncommon and foreign, but somehow illuminating.
He acts like the typical psychiatrist: he spits out comments and conclusions about your life which you cannot contradict, regardless of their accuracy; because he’s the doctor and if you don’t agree it’s just because you’re not accepting the reality of things. After three years of therapy and being the introspective person I am, one who’s no longer afraid of even the darkest and scariest truths of the human mind, I don’t really appreciate that, but I suppose it won’t be such a burden in a group environment. Plus, thank Sa, his conclusions were mostly correct in the first place.
The interesting thing was finding myself wrapping up the effects of a three-year-long journey through my mind and soul and discovering just how many things have indeed changed. How many things I managed to change. Perspective gave me hope. Once again I could see that I am the kind to get what she wants, I usually do, and this is no different. I wanted to get better, to change, and I have. My troubles right now are very different from what they used to be. Surviving is not a problem anymore, the task at hand is rounding the edges, getting closer to perfection, getting reality closer to dreams and desires. The way I can see my issues now… I am so much more perceptive. Every day I get closer to new answers and new revelations. And it surprised me to no end that what I have been trying to do for myself in the past six months was indeed correct. I have been praised for the idea itself of seeking a group therapy, since relating to peers is exactly what I need to get out of my cage. In order to step forward I need to step back, reconnect to the very place where my past took a wrong turn, where I became anxious to be a grown up and skipped the rest. That rest, where you take relationships with the opposite sex lightly, where you make mistakes to learn from them, where play is more important than being serious, where my peers help me choose my beaten track, not people from other generations.

So at 32 I LARP, so I get a tattoo, so I try to meet and know and talk to as many people as I can, so I try to seduce strangers and fuck as many different men as I can, so I skate to give my little-girl-self the satisfaction to wear a costume and try to win a competition.
So I regress. Because I need to step forward.