Regretfully, Yours Truly

I have a propensity to view myself as kind, emotionally intelligent, and understanding.

Which are all of course true.

But this also means, I tend to overlook the more unsettling aspects of my personality in favor of my more achingly sweet characteristics because truthfully, that would mean confronting past traumas and burdens that I for some reason still let drag me down.

A therapist told me one time that people have a tendency to see only the bad and the good. We make judgements and place people in categories because it’s easy to think in black and white.

This post is about the blurry parts of myself I’ve always been afraid to acknowledge. It’s about the characteristic that sits in the darker space of my brain rather than next to the others by my heart. This is my gray area.

I know the cat and mouse game very well.  Mainly because all my life, I have been surrounded by manipulative and dangerous people. Parts of me are beginning to wonder if I’m unconsciously seeking them out.

When I was younger it was just about studying. I think it’s because I wanted to understand why someone would ever want to hurt me in the ways some people did. I constantly observed and asked why a person was the way that they were, what made them act the way they did, how acting that way made them feel. I learned really quickly that most of the time it was because some people just like control. Over everything. Over how you view them, over how you feel, over your own thoughts.

It doesn’t matter how genuine you are, they just want to make sure they have full advantage over your kinder nature. It’s a selfish balancing act, how much can they take without giving back.

I don’t know if it was the weird and uncomfortable relationship I had with my dad, the girls who bullied me in middle school, or the gross men who realized my parents weren’t giving me the right amount of attention. But whatever it was sparked this unnatural and strange inclination—to fuck with the cat.

Younger me, teenage me, was angry. At everyone. And especially at people who were eager to take advantage of me.  I could see right through them, of course I could.  I had been studying people like them my whole childhood. Some parts of me wish I couldn’t because maybe ignorance would’ve felt easier. Their smiles always looked the same, their eyes always looked dead, and the feelings I got in my stomach were always way too familiar. 

Sometimes I wanted to prove that I could hurt them just as much as they’ve hurt me. Other times I was more focused on just pissing them off. And even though I knew I was prey, I couldn’t help but wonder what happened after the nine lives. Wonder what their angle was this time, power over my body, or my brain, or maybe they just wanted to see how much of myself they could break before I noticed. 

Eventually I became much less passive and way more aggressive. So severely on edge and ready to bite back. And the problem with my mouth is that I never know when to stop, even when I started to taste blood I still felt urges to rip.  Everything I’ve tasted since has been so bitter.   

There are sides of me that remind me of someone else. Vicious. 

Over time, I’ve realized that it’s much harder for me to open up to people. I am often told I seem unapproachable, awkward, sad even. I’ve started to find that I am wary of people who take interest in me both romantically and platonically. Why would someone be so eager to talk to me? Why are they giving me all this attention? What do they want from me? And what are they going to try and take if I don’t give it to them willingly? 

The truth is, I’m waiting for you to slip. 

For you to actually reveal why you’re here because I’ve already perceived you to be a villain. I only know love with conditions, so what are your stipulations? 

I’ve also realized that I’m a mirror. That in my own ways, I’m a liar, manipulative and conniving. Like those before me. I’m looking for the bad in people, so that I can justify the judgements I’ve already made about them. I convince myself that everyone else is out to get me. That people aren’t as authentic as they seem.

So in return, I hold back. I don’t talk very much, I lie about my feelings. I live in a constant state of anxiety, trying to figure out everyone else’s next moves and thoughts. Trying to stay one step ahead of the fallout. Because eventually I feel like it’ll all come crashing down and I’m trying to save myself from the pain of feeling embarrassed. Exposed. Violated. In a way it feels like paranoia.

If you want to talk about unhealthy dynamics, if you want to talk about ruining good things, I’m your girl.

I’m worried that if I admit any of these things, it’ll infect every relationship I have, ‘cause despite these feelings I’ve made genuine beautiful connections with people. I trust some, and love few, and care for many. I’m worried that if I begin to recognize the negative traits within myself, others will see it too.

And in my head, that would ruin everything. I’m realizing now that self-awareness feels more dangerous than necessary. If I could stand proudly in my blissful delusion it’d be harder to knock me off the pedestal I’ve made for myself. 

I guess then this isn’t about past trauma, it’s also about the behaviors that grew from it.

At some point it became less about defiance and more about proving something to myself, that I was right. That I could only ever trust myself. To me it’s safer this way. I’ve only learned manipulation because it’s followed me everywhere I went. I’ve adopted some of the cat’s tactics as a form of defense, self preservation.

In the midst of this adaptation, however, I’ve forgotten to weigh the costs. The price I pay to feel more dependent on myself is isolation from support and care in its truer selfless state. It’s isolation from the closer connections I crave so much. It’s about wanting control, over my own emotions, over the way people see me, over the potential I have to feel  pain. 

I’m feeling really upset right now. It feels like I’m saying “Look at the parts of me I don’t even like looking at myself”. I feel unlikable, unfixable, just as bad as the ones who made me this way. If I show you this, if I tell you about this part of myself will you still see me the same way?

Will you still love me? 

Do you promise? 

Thank you.