The Narrative

Stories. The sandwiches we make to consume reality. I'm learning that they depend on context, emotion, and nuance in the ego role we take on while narrating- it seeps into the interpreter's mind a certain way.

Out of our control. When I witnessed my story being told, out of context, in a very different way, in a very different room, in front of a very different ego of mine, my guards went up. I better control my narrative. Period.

My experiences and intimacies are mine to be felt and shared. Not for another to dictate and not for some petty attention. They are delicate little bundles of experience not meant for grapevine bonding. I see how networking games are played through participation in these pass-the-tea bytes of ludacris drama.

What if I don't wish to participate in these distortions of opinion and projections of hatred and absence of consciousness? Do I lose out on the network? Has this been the cost of my social life thus far? Fine by me!

The disgust I feel in this pretentious play of aliveness. What is real aliveness? What is the aliveness I wish to experience? I wish it to be real and honest and grounded without games. Games can be reserved for work. The politics of attention-whoring and reflecting.

I've been in enough pretentious rooms of pompous attention-sucking personas that don't do anything apart from serve themselves and suck my life energy. My frigid face often reflecting the expression that spells - Fuck this! I don't trust it until I see it rolling with life, safety, and truth.

Anyway, I reserve my opinions and judgments over these issues because Humans are humans. They lie and cheat and are terribly damaged. Their anger was justified in their own eyes, but its the audacity that gets to me!! Fuck. I hate some of them for their audacity, and I hate that they succeed because of this very selfish audacity. Making themselves seen and heard and expressing their truth despite the room not really digesting it. Makes them unattractive and charismatic together? FUCK

(I know how toxic this sounds, but man oh man, how freeing it is to speak my own mind about this AUDACITY where kindness is eroded)

And so, I'm angry. for something entirely different, because he asked me out again with the low effort he does and I said no. I'm angry because he will try again. I'm angry because I don't want to play these games with him. I'm angry that I don't want to tell him to fuck off directly because I know he will. I'm angry because there is a part of me that still wants his cheap attention. His low effort nonsense just to get me home so he can try. I promised myself no. Last time he said why do "girls" (please note always said in plural) act all high up there and then agree to come to the house. So that's it. I will not go to his house. No plans made to his home will I agree to. I'm done being his low effort fuck. I want more out of my life, in my job, in my colleagues, and in my love life. As much as sex is fun, it entangles me in a delicate space where I must be taken care of well. And that demonstration is important to me. 

Let's take a beat. I'm returning to this after a couple of weeks. I'm calmer now. But I'm closer to the eye of the spiralling storm of experiencing boundary-erasing, disrespectful behaviour. The common denominator being me. I've accepted that I love him, I've accepted that I crave the need to earn love, the need to be needed. I see my behaviour play out unhealthily, like being able to clearly see the hole on the ground, through which my next few steps I will plummet through and gravity takes over.

The common denominator is me. That I allow being in the proximity of this behaviour, that I break internal contracts of time & energy. That I don't honour my giving with pausing to receive. That I need to sit in the discomfort of my own selflessness and identity, whole of not knowing what I like and don't like as I chase to fulfill another's life quest. 

Helping is easy; it needs me to be needed, and that I know oh so well. That I needn't make it my business to soothe another because I don't wish to sit in the discomfort of their emotions. It's not wrong, it's a part of me that used to understand that it used to be the only way to know I'm loved. So how do I allow any other way to reach me & teach me? Well, I guess checking every time gravity takes over when I breach my internal contracts. It used to be something I beat myself over, now I'm unafraid of the hole, the hole points out to parts that need attention, the emotions that I otherwise couldn't access through my walks around this plot of earth.

The hole helps me become whole? The pain that he provides, and he does provide, helps me feel an older pain I need to pay attention to. And then address, and make a choice to soothe what I need. And to understand - How am I playing a role in creating this? single-handedly taking responsibility for this? and meeting the hand that is held out to harm me? Can I stop that and choose better, learn that I don't need to hold this hand anymore? That I can see it and have enough in me to not seek the hand's attention, its human touch, its grasp, its pull, its gravity.

So I say to myself - 

We are equals
Let them be
Allow myself to focus on what contributes to my life

Cultivate safety on my own

They are not responsible for how you feel
You are not responsible for how they feel
What do you believe their behavior means about you?

Cavour, Roma.