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 “positive”, 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 “get out of responsibility free” cards. The Universe doesn’t protect you from shit and shitheads because you’ve suffered “enough”.
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 “deserve” happiness, that I “deserve” someone who will put as much energy into caring for me as I do them, that I “deserve” 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