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"Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should just live next door and visit now and then." --Katherine Hepburn
Hmm, have decided friends are too much work. Totally not worth the effort. I mean, there you are, socially awkward Holmes-esque weirdo who can barely communicate with others unless writing is involved. And then with some struggle, you decided to make friends who haven't known you since you were five, or six, or eight, and have to learn a whole new language, in essence. And you do, and you have fun. And make more friends. And you help them with their crap, even though, essentially, you are a selfish retreating creature at heart, you do it because you know it's the right thing to do. And you actually start trying to talk, TALK, about your feelings, even though sometimes you can feel this pressure just building up inside of you, this overwhelming panic that someday, someone might figure something out or ask something you have no answer for. That they expect you to be BFF, that more than one does, and your mind kind of splinters into work and friends and writing, and the writing is always there, but now there is panic and concern and friends demanding it's time. And then say, something happens, nothing dramatic, nothing bad exactly, but which nonetheless hurts you and makes you depressed and makes you feel pain, and so you look to friends for reassurance, and they are busy, they are too tired, they are in couples and couples must necessarily look to themselves before they look to you. And that's understandable. Except that you have made this reaching out offer, this almost embarrassing, for you, offer for others to hang out, this continued and increasingly urgent asking for some time. And still they are tired. It's the old ones, the one who know you, who are suited to your nature, that will be there. The ones who don't make demands but know when you clearly need help. And then new ones call you, now that the hurt and pain have hardened into something close to determination, and say they are less tired now, did you need something now? And you say no, and act as though its nothing. But the trust is gone, and they have no idea what they've done, do they? And you feel, just a little, superior that they don't know, but also sad, because they don't know. And isn't it easier living without the constant panic, the pressure of being "friends" when you can be more than that with a smaller group of people who know you and whom you know. And maybe those friends should ask questions, but you don't ask questions of them, so it's all ok. And there's anger now, but that's a nice, safe emotion to have, so whatever. Sure, let's hang out, but it's different now and they still have no idea.
Sometimes psychosis is such fun.
*is insane*
Have started reading about the Hell-fire clubs. Inspiration I think, for a new saga.
Hmm, have decided friends are too much work. Totally not worth the effort. I mean, there you are, socially awkward Holmes-esque weirdo who can barely communicate with others unless writing is involved. And then with some struggle, you decided to make friends who haven't known you since you were five, or six, or eight, and have to learn a whole new language, in essence. And you do, and you have fun. And make more friends. And you help them with their crap, even though, essentially, you are a selfish retreating creature at heart, you do it because you know it's the right thing to do. And you actually start trying to talk, TALK, about your feelings, even though sometimes you can feel this pressure just building up inside of you, this overwhelming panic that someday, someone might figure something out or ask something you have no answer for. That they expect you to be BFF, that more than one does, and your mind kind of splinters into work and friends and writing, and the writing is always there, but now there is panic and concern and friends demanding it's time. And then say, something happens, nothing dramatic, nothing bad exactly, but which nonetheless hurts you and makes you depressed and makes you feel pain, and so you look to friends for reassurance, and they are busy, they are too tired, they are in couples and couples must necessarily look to themselves before they look to you. And that's understandable. Except that you have made this reaching out offer, this almost embarrassing, for you, offer for others to hang out, this continued and increasingly urgent asking for some time. And still they are tired. It's the old ones, the one who know you, who are suited to your nature, that will be there. The ones who don't make demands but know when you clearly need help. And then new ones call you, now that the hurt and pain have hardened into something close to determination, and say they are less tired now, did you need something now? And you say no, and act as though its nothing. But the trust is gone, and they have no idea what they've done, do they? And you feel, just a little, superior that they don't know, but also sad, because they don't know. And isn't it easier living without the constant panic, the pressure of being "friends" when you can be more than that with a smaller group of people who know you and whom you know. And maybe those friends should ask questions, but you don't ask questions of them, so it's all ok. And there's anger now, but that's a nice, safe emotion to have, so whatever. Sure, let's hang out, but it's different now and they still have no idea.
Sometimes psychosis is such fun.
*is insane*
Have started reading about the Hell-fire clubs. Inspiration I think, for a new saga.
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This post resonated with me, because I understand how you feel. I swing on this very extreme pendulum- it's either total extroversion, or complete misanthropy, and never anything inbetween. The introvert wants to write and read history books and create without engaging. The extrovert wants to be everything to everyone, and engage the world in a huge tongue kiss. At any given time I'm either one or the other.
It's like a compulsion to extend yourself to others, because you know you could help them- and then you somehow become their guru, or their muse- and then inevitably, you realize the buck stops with you, because they can't possibly return any of it. And sometimes you get drained from giving too much, because god knows you have a million "selfish" pursuits that warrant gratifying (such as finishing your novel, or painting the fresco in your studio) and if you take a break from being the universal mother to try and reclaim a little of yourself, people get upset, because they've become accustomed to a certain level of involvement from you, and don't recognize it as a gift anymore.
The strong never get as much as they give.