Sometimes I wonder why I feel this way; I feel so over-looked and masochistic. I never knew why it relieves my pain to either inflict it upon myself or to hope and pray someone else does it for me. I actually like for people to say harsh things to me, only if they are true, of course. I am an older man who has no confidence, who has nothing except the clothes on his back and the wisdom he’s carried through these years. I don’t understand why I wish to inflict pain upon myself…sometimes it almost feels like a drug. It feels good to actually feel something sometimes. I inflict pain upon my body so I can look at the scars and remind myself of how broken I really am and how I long for someone, anybody, to break me down.
If I can’t break me, you break me.
Sometimes I remember what my father used to tell me, he’d always say, “You’ll never be good enough, you’ll never be any sort of child of mine,”. Yeah, some father. I carry what he has said and done to me like a bag upon my back, like a weight upon my chest, and I hope nobody ever sees it. Then they always look in my eyes and note some sort of pain haunts my fragile soul. Even though I am a man I portray a very good wall. I’ll stop you when you get too close, I’ll change the subject because talking about myself makes me uncomfortable. Just the thought of somebody helping me makes me anxious and uncomfortable. My entire life I’ve had to live out on my own; became a parent to some close friends before I hit double digits and tried my best not to cry each day. Eventually I forgot how to cry.
I’ve been trying to cry for more than five years now.
Something about this pain I carry makes me feel comfortable and safe, it keeps me on my guard and it never allows me to trust people with my heart. The one thing my mother had taught me before she passed was to never trust anybody with my heart. I guess I’m living up to her expectations. Even though I’m anxious, yet comfortable, within my pain I can’t help but feel distant and unwanted. It’s been years since I’ve last had someone caress my body, my face, my soul even, and I blame my distance. Even when I’m around ‘friends’ I feel distant; it just seems as though nobody can understand me. I give off signs that something isn’t right, but I suppose they’re too wrapped up in their lives to notice mine.
I’m always here for people, for my “family” because it makes me happy knowing I’m making them better. I like to lose myself in their problems and for a while I forget about the pain. But it’s only temporary. Everybody expects me to have their back, to listen to them, to help them, to fix them, feed them, and laugh with them…but I get nothing in return. A simple “thank you,” would be nice, but only if it’s sincere. So why don’t I just tell them this? Because I feel I would lose part of my “manliness” if I do, I feel like they would try to be something they’re not and end up forgetting (because they always have), and they would feel obligated to always try to gauge my actions, reactions, and try to read my thoughts. I hate knowing I’ve worried someone because I don’t do anything to purposefully try to worry or hurt someone, especially if I love them. I always end up justifying my detachment and isolation by believing that I’m saving someone from having to constantly worry about me….
One cannot be deeply responsive to the world without being saddened very often
I know I’m not okay on the inside, but I’ll continue to outwardly show that I am. You may be able to see something is off within me, but I’ll give you a smile to ease your concerns and change the topic to something that would interest you. I like when it’s about them, I like that I can become an empty vessel then fill myself up with their happiness. It makes me feel wanted sometimes, it feels like I can feel–but it’s such a fake way to do it. One day I’ll be able to breathe, to trust, to feel, to smile, to laugh…until that day comes you will only see the surface of me.
My silence is just another word for my pain.