I’ve been opening up and sharing more lately, going back further and deeper. It’s a way of neutralising the poison of things held too close. And it makes me acknowledge these things, which is very different from overcoming them. In my combative way, I sought always to defeat these things when what I should have done is accept them. By saying them aloud I let these things out into the world where I have no control over them.
A good example of that is a conversation I had today with one of my closer confidantes at work. She’s a 30-year-old Indian with a big personality and a heart of gold. I told her some things way back when and again more recently. She’s sympathetic and even admiring, and very supportive.
She was telling me about a show on Netflix she’s been watching and of how the main character reminds her of me. He’s such a good man and he’s calm and composed but his life’s all fucked up, she said.
I wondered, is that how people see me: that my life’s all fucked up? It’s hard to argue against but I never feel that – well, rarely feel it anyway. I didn’t like hearing it obviously. It makes me sound like a victim. Like I’m helpless. As if I’ve been put upon by forces bigger than me. That’s my paranoid spin on it when what she has said is much simpler than that. Yet there’s an inference in her words that I’m due sympathy, if not pity.
There’s nothing in the world I want less. And I don’t feel that either. In my mind, I’m still striving forward. As I always used to say, I’m not winning but I haven’t lost yet. I’m still in the fucking game.
I know this is something I shouldn’t care about. I’m supposed to be above this. Anything else and I’d let it go, but this is hard to stomach. There’s every chance I’ll try and set her straight. I’m good, things could be better, but I never give in.