Between me and the world is a gigantic roadblock. Between me and my happiness another big roadblock. Most of them are excuses, some are serious and truthful, others are made up to sound genuine in order to trick my mind or my consciousness into thinking I’m right. I’m used to lying to myself, I do that a lot.
Lately, I’ve been using my daughter as an excuse for everything that I don’t have time to do anymore. It’s a perfect excuse because it is true. My daughter is the most exhausting creature I’ve ever met. She is absolutely lovely and I adore her, HOWEVER, she sucks my energy in a way I couldn’t even start to describe it. If she isn’t sucking my energy, she is a source of self frustration and self doubt that I, of course, experienced before, but not at this level and not with this intensity. She’s the perfect excuse because a one year old child needs constant care and attention. Please take your time and truly dig in the “constant” in the last phrase. It is a constant thing. It’s a 24h deal. I’m not just saying it, it’s the kind of thing that in order to understand it you need to experience it yourself.
I didn’t particularly like kids prior to her, I found them annoying, I had no idea how to interact with them, I hated people that when seeing a kid, they immediately would turn into these creatures fooling around and changing their voices to a note so high it could break the imaginary glass inside my head, let alone a real one. When I was pregnant I saw this documentary that was saying there’s a reason for that kind of indifference to babies. The doctor was saying that if a baby sees a lot of adults smiling and laughing at them, later on, when they’ll be adults, they’ll be able to do the same to other kids. Well, I guess I had a sad start to begin with. Whatever.
Among other things, E’s debut into my life came as a challenge. I can’t express how chaotic and disorganised my life was before her, but that had to change completely once she was born. I had to force myself into planning a routine and actually stick to it. I loved my chaos, but in all honesty, sticking to a routine kind of tickled my ovaries too. I always wanted more discipline in my life, but was too lazy to apply it. Maybe lazy is a simplistic way to put it, and there’s more to it than just pure laziness. I never had any real discipline in my life. I had a complicated childhood and I had the luxury to refuse things that I didn’t want to do. Nobody told me that I have to do it and insert some consequences if I don’t… No one could hold me responsible if I didn’t finish something, be it a chore, a problem or a project. I could always refuse to do it and run away from the problem. The only problem was how the world would see me, but I’ve been in a constant war with that aspect and eventually caved in: I’m a freak, I’m a weirdo. And I got the Hell out of my hometown. There were special circumstances, true, but I think this is what created this procrastinating monster that I am now. That and a tremendous fear of ruining everything, of not doing it right, of ridicule, judgement and eventually the low self esteem cherry on top with extra cream. I don’t like myself, why would anyone like anything that I do?
Once I could detach myself from the triggers that generated my low self esteem ( to be read: moved out of my hometown, never looked back, didn’ exactly stay in touch with childhood friends) I had a couple of boosts of confidence. That worked fine because I could be whomever I wanted and reinvent myself, far from the misconceptions and judgemental looks from a small town. The problem is that I constantly battled with myself and how I allow people to treat me, to perceive me. I had no idea what’s normal, what’s the norm. What should I accept? What was out of line? I just went along with a lot of stuff, I expected people to treat me in a way that I wouldn’t be comfortable now. Not that now I know what normal is, it’s just that I know better what I’m comfortable with and I’m not afraid or reticent in asking it. When I interact with other people I try and be as natural as I can, but when I get home and those pesky little bastards inside my brain start talking, they always make me wonder: Did I go over the line? Did I exaggerate? Should I have refrained from sharing that? Did I offend someone? Then I get pissed off with myself because, well, why the fuck should I care so much about what other people think? It’s not like THEY are perfect, they can fuck up as well, that’s part of being human, right? That’s what every author says, it must be true.
I hate myself for overthinking everything. For caring so much about what other people think, or for not caring enough. The fact is, I act like I don’t care, that’s my attitude, that’s what I try to convince myself of. However, I surprise myself each time obsessing and overthinking about things I’ve said and done, so I must actually really care? I don’t know, this obviously doesn’t happened with everybody, but I came to realise that on a day that started well with a boost of confidence, sometimes, it’s enough to hear a mean comment from a stranger to make me question everything. Was I really fair in judging that in that way? Should I have tried more? Maybe I should’ve just shut up? Ugh, and so many unanswered questions pass through my mind all the damn time, it’s freaking exhausting.
There are a couple of things that are non negotiable for me. I think homophobes suck, racists and anti-feminists suck, but most of all, I am absolutely 100% certain that my father sucks ass. These are non negotiable, fuck you if you are one of them, don’t care how you see me, kthxbye.
I cannot for the life of me understand homophobes. People have been gay and fluid about their sexuality for so long, I can’t understand how everybody just let a bunch of self moralising pedophiles dictate that’s a sin or something, that somehow you’ll receive eternal damnation for it. I mean, I get it that they tried, but how come everybody was just ok with it? And still is? Racists and anti-feminists I can understand, I guess when you look deeply into these people’s beliefs, in the end you’ll find fear. Fear of losing control, of losing a preferred status or a certain privilege and that just makes it so much disgusting. Just because I understand it, doesn’t mean I’m ok with it, ok?
All of the above I realised relatively at a young age and it’s not such a groundbreaking conclusion to take. Now, when it comes to my father, I had moments and thoughts and revelations and somewhere in my mid twenties, I just gave up, let go, stopped talking to him. I’m sad this happened and I wish things would be different. Wishful thinking caused me lots of suffering, I learned the hard way that.. well, some people just won’t change. No matter how much they say they love you and no matter how many times they tell you they will try to do better by you. I believe my dad loves me, but he doesn’t care enough to act on it, to show it or to make any changes to his behaviour in order to make us have a relationship. I understand him, he didn’t grew up with a father, it must’ve been tough. That being said, I refused to live being constantly disappointed and hurt by him and I cut him off. He didn’t even make an effort to have me in his life. It’s been five years since we don’t talk and he didn’t make the slightest effort to reconcile. I had a kid in the meantime and still nothing. I bet he blames everything on me and on how spoiled and difficult I am. He probably says that I just suck. Over that, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over, I mean, it’s a super sad conclusion to take. I just. I just can’t. Having him in my life doing the same shit he always does is a million times worse than whatever sad conclusion I took.