I’m beginning to think I’m an addict.
I mean, how else to explain all of this? Self-esteem hasn’t really ever been a problem for me, not really. Everyone’s insecure about one thing or another, but overall, I’ve always ended up with a net-positive outlook and self-image.
But I suppose I’m not allowed to call myself an addict. Nor am I allowed to be capricious with the word â€œpositiveâ€, for that matter. Those are reserved for the more deserved, the ones whose trials have created a special mystique from behind which extraordinary behaviors can be exercised without compunction.
What I’ve learned is that suffering doesn’t really get you â€œget out of responsibility freeâ€ cards. The Universe doesn’t protect you from shit and shitheads because you’ve suffered â€œenoughâ€.
So maybe I’m not really an addict, and maybe I’m HIV-, but I’ve fallen prey to the notion of entitlement nonetheless. Had a lover die? Check. Lived in pain for months? Check. Been betrayed, stolen from, put at health risk by a trusted someone? Check. Check. Check.
Loved ones will tell me that after all that, I â€œdeserveâ€ happiness, that I â€œdeserveâ€ someone who will put as much energy into caring for me as I do them, that I â€œdeserveâ€ to be far away from the bad stuff, but the Universe doesn’t really give a flying fuck about that.
No, to be far away from the bad stuff, addict/PWA/widower notwithstanding, one must keep one’s self away from the bad stuff. Happiness is a nice idea, and a purposively elusive goal, but the trying, always trying, must never stop (thanks, Joshie).
I am known to friends and others for using sharp and harsh words. Here they’re usually wrapped up in the turbid bundles of multi-syllabic obfuscation, but they still make quite a bludgeon when propelled by the sheer force of my will.
So what happens when the unstoppable force of personality meets the immovable object of unassailable nice-guy reputation?
I suppose we may find out, but I hope not.
god of biscuits