Therapeutic insurgence of well worded taunts by parents and siblings and friends who find comfort in my pain is most of what comprises communication these days.
You are a recluse, they say. A monk. Hibernating, isolated, an island. Alone, bereft, sullen. The expletives descend like monsoon showers, relentless, probing, threatening of imminent flooding of resentment and chagrin in my mind. My patience finds itself stretched to the limit of indifferent ignorance; my threshold of composed, head-bowed, pursed lower lip compliance is on the verge of being breached. I can almost feel their concern rip through my defenses to settle heavy like the truth on my conscience.
The picture they paint is colored in sorrow. The brushes they use are made of apprehensions. And still the picture is blurry, distant, obscure. Someone else’s life, someone else’s sorrow.
I feel like yelling. I feel like grabbing them by the shoulders to shake them so violently that the need to preach the accepted ways of existence as god’s decree lurches out of their constipated perceptions and gets trampled beneath the rampaging onslaught of clarity.
I’m not fucked in the head. I feel like telling them. I’m not sad or forlorn or anything even remotely relatable to being scarred by love. Shit happens. I get it. I got it long before you people did. I got it long before you even begun to understand the true nature of my purported masochism. I’m happy when I’m sad. Don’t expect me to be able to explain it. Don’t expect me to justify it. Don’t expect me to give in to your demands of acting right, of laughing and consorting and being a socially viable commodity. I’ve never been a butterfly, I never will be. Yes I’m sullen, and morose, and anti-social, narcissistic, aloof, indifferent, vindictive, corrosive… But I AM.