Last circle we talked about Christmas. I shared that I was never really found of Christmas and gathering. Lisa asked: Why? Because I don’t like to be with people. Why? Because I feel I don’t belong. Why? Ahmmm, I just don’t feel fine in a group. Why? I don’t connect with them. Why?
This went on for a while, I couldn’t answer.
I have done some thinking and I came up with the fact that I never allow me to be myself in a group. Why? I dug deeper and it goes back pretty far, but the tip of the iceberg was right in front of me.
I always, always, fall into traps.
At 16, my father said to me that I was a terrible driver; that I would never drive. I believed it for years, I was ashamed of myself. Nowadays, every time my father and I spoke on the phone, he’d say something like: “When are you coming to visit us? I’d be so much easier if you had your licence!” Every time it felt like a hit on my ego. I never ever thought I’d drive, that I would always be a constant disappointment for my father.
I had my licence only 3 weeks ago, so naturally I’m looking to get a car. I realised there is no way in burning hell that I’ll get a car. I have too many debts with the bank.
My parents, at one point, decided to stop paying for my education. They decided to pay for my little sister’s university instead. I had never stopped going to school, whereas she had dropped and worked. For them, it made sense to focus on her education. Made sense to stop paying for mine, half way through my bachelor degree, right after my break up with my BF of 7 years, right after my coming out, right after I started my medication, right after I was diagnosed with general anxiety disorder and depression. My father suggested I open a credit margin at the bank in order to continue my bac.
But back to the topic at hand… Of course I can’t get a car, I got no money! I gave into my dad’s ideas of what I SHOULD do. AGAIN. I felt into the trap of guilt and expectation.
I realised that I always wanted my parents to love me. I firmly believed in their critiques. I always wore a mask in order to please them, as if I would show my true nature they would not love me. They said I was the quiet one, a bit asocial that preferred to draw or play online video games instead of being with friends, I was the funny and thoughtful one, the sensible artist. They gave me all of these characteristics, and I could easily pull them off. Maybe that why I was never willing to show my hurt to them, I knew it would hurt them that I was hurt. I always tried to protect them from this – I still do. I’m keeping them in the illusion.
Outside the home, I was a bat-shit crazy kid, I was stealing, fighting, burning and breaking things, getting high and selling drugs, fucking every boys and girls that wanted to give it a go. I was pretty deep into writing devastating suicidal poetry and stories that would keep me up at night. I’d cry and be in pain. But in the morning I’d become the obedient child again. I gave them some bits of problems to keep them busy from finding out the whole things. I’d fake my way out of conversation by being the mature, emotionally distant person act I pull so well.
I remember, on one school night I came home to go to bed, they were waiting for me on the couch in front of my room’s door.
“Honey, we need to have a conversation about drugs… Do you ever do drugs?”
“Yes… I have to admit that I have.”
“Oh my god, you know it’s dangerous to do drugs! What kind of drug have you used?”
“Oh!! I only smoke pot. I’d never do anything else, it’s pretty scary… I have smoke with Julie a couple of time, but during the week-end only.”
“Well, you know, we are glad that you are telling the truth, thank you for that. You have to be really careful ok, now? Don’ hesitate to come talk to us if you need. We have had experiences with pot, it’s ok.”
“Yes, of course.”
During that conversation, I was high on mushroom and the room was beginning to melt all-round the couch where my parents were sitting. I felt I was grinning stupidly, but I’m sure it looked sincere. They were happy that I was honest with them, I was happy that I duped them.
I always lived truthfully to imaginary circumstances.
I see now that I was setting my own trap. I was putting on another mask. No wonder I was suffocating and couldn’t feel anything for anyone. I put on mask so people loves me. So, I guess juggling with masks is the hardest part for me in a crowd. I guess that’s why I prefer to be alone. I became older and the game is less and less appealing. I don’t mind people hating me or just not loving me, but it became like a bad habit.
Sometimes I wish I’d be invisible. A ghost. I‘d love to just see them, to just look through pure eyes, being themselves, without the stain of my dazzling 1 million dollar smile on their mind.