I have forced everyone and everything away. I have chosen to do this. To shut down. Bolt all the doors and bury myself within. This tomb. I hope my instinct to follow this deep down into my rabbit hole is right. I fear otherwise, like there will be no coming back from inside here. And I fear other things where this could take me. But I need this so much. I feel so battered. So beaten by everyone. And those hurtful words of one, I think that is the worst. It is one thing to be rejected by someone but very different to be actually stabbed in the gut by someone who uses the vulnerable secrets you shared as part on the rejection. I don't want to ever let anyone in again. I think I finally learned this. I think I would rather be that odd, little hermit than keep having to feel so wounded each time I let open the door of trusting chance.
This insult on top of injury. Working to get strong after Dean only to have the false security not only abandon you but betray you too by telling you that he can't live with your drama (some of which he created) or your issues (which he liked and enjoyed at first) or accusing you of misconstruing what I know was plainly expressed in his own words. I am left with the conclusion that he is the cruelest person I have ever known. The coldest and the most ruthless. To shrug me off like a momentary interest makes me wonder if he has the attention span of a flea and the sincerity of a demon.
I want to exorcise him out of me. Do a metaphoric medieval bleeding. The illusions were the poison.
I don't want to even step out. I want to stay in my tomb. To find something. It's something I lost.... where did I lose it? How long ago? I knew how to do this when I was younger. Much, much younger. I knew how to keep the world far, far away and not ever let anyone in. It is so obvious to me that I should never have decided to learn how to trust, to be a member of society, really, because I am really not like society at all. My childhood made me different. So the same techniques don't work on me. I'm not equipped with the same structures of instincts based on the typical experiences of the social norm. They don't apply with me. I cannot blend.
I don't care anymore. And I used to. I really did try to be normal. But it's not worth it. It isn't worth how bad this feels or how much time I end up spending being tortured and sad, regretting whatever I exposed and left feeling like a freak and an idiot. It doesn't matter to me. I don't care anymore about the opinions of society. I don't care about impressing people. And I think I am also even willing to admit that I never really approved of the morals or conscience of the accepted ideas of society. I think people are mostly fake in that world. Their values disgust me. Their judgments. I don't want to be one of them. I never fit in there and finally I can see that I am really glad I never did. I like being who I am better than trying to be accepted by the majority that repels me anyway.
I am reminding myself of this me. That me who chose not to be friends with the popular crowd when I was a new kid at the American school. I remember being blown away that the person who asked me to be a member of the popular crowd could actually admit that it was an intentional group that excluded the “uncool” kids. I was thirteen and so disgusted. I knew then that I would never want to be the type of person who lived by superficial values and making impressions that were not even original. I never wanted to conform. Conform as in to consciously tailor oneself in order to be liked! --and approved by everyone.
If that is the world “Ash” worships and cares so much to be accepted as a member into, than maybe the person he really is is actually not the person he showed himself to be to me. And I am starting to realize this and realize that he would only have made me miserable. To be hurt by him on a regular basis; to have my most personal confidences first accepted and then later ridiculed.... which side is the real side? And he is the one who said “you think you know somebody and one day you find out....”. I have begun to wonder over the accuracies of what he said happened in his life. Maybe it was all brought on by him. Like his distorted interpretation of me, in the end. His sudden complete 180 spin that was a completely different person. And maybe he had just worked really hard to pretend those insightful conversations gauged by practiced calculation of what he knew would work on trying to impress me. That is the only explanation for how fast he turned so cold. The flick of the switch. That explains how he evidently does not care about me at all and coldly used me as my daughter said he did. This is the only explanation that makes any sense. In this case, he represents and embodies all thing that I feel to be vile. I think then.... I must truly hate him.
I am the better person. He was a fraud.
Where do people go like me? I guess they live on pages left behind from their own tombs. Maybe this is why I found my own version of acceptance in the words of long dead mentors. Bronte and Nin, Tennyson, Keats and Wilde. Where something necessary inside themselves required them to communicate to be immortally, eternally left behind for kindred spirits that come and go on this planet. I mean, what else is any better proof to me that I am not the only soul who ever walked this earth and felt these things and felt so alone but steadfast in knowing this is the only way I can be. And if the masses won't ever get it, so be it. Take it or leave it, this is me, who I am and if Socrates had no choice but to have society take his life for being true to his moralities, than, on principle, I should be willing to suffer the consequences of going it alone and swimming against the stream. What other choice do I really have at this point in my life? All other ways I have tried turned out to fail me and prove dissatisfying.
When, eventually, if ever I (because I'm not sure if I want to or ever need to) venture out again, step outside my tomb.... I'm keeping on the shields. Will never take them off again; won't betray myself again. I have learned this, finally. And my moments of weakness when the hollowness of my tomb echoes of silence, I will have to remember to remind myself of my immortal friends, select some passage and read out loud until I can feel them with me in my tomb. And draw comfort that way. My spell against the temptation if ever I am again moved to think to want to believe or think I need to believe there can exist anyone I would ever dare risk to trust again. Wear my protection faithfully like a metaphoric and literal condom. No one may trespass again. No one gets through these walls again.
I like my tomb. I like the silence, mostly. I can do whatever I want. I can do nothing at all all day. I can be selfish, behave decadently if I choose to. I owe no one any explanation. And when I want a body, I know where to go and I will if I feel like it and when I feel like it and have as much or as many as my whim will take me. But not beyond the flesh. And I think I would rather those times be short and done with, quickly, because most people bore me anyway and I value my time alone and like being alone more than not. But right now, I am only padding my tomb. Cementing the doors shut. I can wrap packing tape around my body if I feel like I need to be held. Held together. Because arms that hold you and make you feel safe are illusions that can and will abandon you as soon as you depend on them.