A Letter From Self

I think the worst feeling out of any feelings are the ones that make us believe that something is wrong.
You know?
Either we don’t belong or maybe we don’t fit in. Or maybe we are too compromised and something about this so-called match is subpar or subject to fail because nothing better comes along.
Something is missing.
Something is off or something is stuck like a machine that lost its rhythm.
Do you know what I mean?
Something about who (and how) we are is somehow clumsy or not right for the surroundings.
And, so, we hold on to what we have because having something is better than having all of nothing.
Right?

I say this happens with people, places, and things.
I say this is the thinking that comes to us when we find ourselves with a group of people. And this can be a personal group. This can be family.
This can be friends or this can even be with someone who was, is, or used to be considered a lover.
And you look around.
Know what I mean?

You find yourself out of place. Something does not flow well, as if the people, places, or the things you are surrounded by are all well and good, but either way something about this is wrong.
Deep down, you know that you don’t belong.
This is the worst.

Something is off. Something doesn’t and worse; the hardest feeling to have are the feelings that come when compromise yourself.
You start to wonder that perhaps this is not the right place for you.
Or worse than this, there is the feeling that something about you will always and forever be out of place and so, you will never match or be matched.

I think this must be the worst of my fears.
I think I am scared to know that I missed my window.
The door closed.
And this is it.
Everything I get from here on will be like the unwanted table scraps that got fed to the dog.
I can feel these words like a blindman feels brail beneath his fingertips.

I hate this.
I really do.

I hate the plastic smile and the salesman-like approach to convince myself and the people around me that yes, this is where I belong.
I’m a good man.
See?
I’m a good person.
This is me in all my glory.
Look.
Look at me and see the fake or plastic facade and please, I beg you to allow me to be part of your world and accept me.

I hate this . . .
I hate this way of thinking.
I hate the belief system that this creates.

I hate the sadness and disconnected feeling of being emotionally homeless or spiritually empty and vacant at the heart and soul. I hate walking around with the dead-end fears of no one to hold, no one to trust, no one to allow myself to sink into the sweet surrender and beautiful submission.
No one to confide in.
No one to rest myself with.
No one to allow myself to be at ease, or to show my back to them and not to worry if all this was “just another lie,” and somehow; soon enough, the knives in my back would stagger like knives to allow their footsteps to climb over me. 

I hate the idea of “fake it until you make it!”
I hate sitting in a room and hearing people speak to me in my native tongue and yet, their interpersonal language is like watching a foreign film with subtitles in a language that I will never understand.

I hate this the same as I loathe the fakeness of my own plastic smile, pretending to go along to “get along,” and to act as if I want this or need this.
I hate this game of personal charades or the contempt that comes to my heart when, in fact, this is nothing more than a fear-based station in the worry of a frightened child who was picked last or not picked at all.

Insecurity. . .
It’s a real bitch.

I hate this

Or maybe I am realizing that where and who I am is not where and who I want to be anymore. Maybe what I was told is true, that depression is not that we hate life or that we hate ourselves.
Maybe depression is our mind and body’s way of saying, “this ain’t it!”
And I get it.
I know that “ain’t” ain’t a word but before the grammar Nazis and the literary police grab hold, let me be clear and let me be honest.
Let me put away the need to be grammatically or politically correct and let me be honest, even for no place else but here.
Let me be human.
Let me be me.

This is not to say that who or where I am is bad or that the people, places, or the things around me are bad or awful or unsightly and undesirable.
No.
I think this means that more than wanting more from life, I want to find my place.
I want to feel my toes digging into the Earth of my promised land.
I want to feel as if I belong naturally instead of looking to prove myself or convince me and the people around me that yes, this is where I am supposed to be.

This is where I belong.

But if this were true, and if this is where I belonged then it would also be true that I would not have to convince or prove this to me or anyone else.
If this is where I fit then I would not have to say any of this.
I wouldn’t have to prove that this is my place and these are my people and above all else; you are my person.
If it’s “real” then there is no reason to prove it.
Understand?

More than anything else, I want the ownership and the feeling of belonging.

I do not know, see, or feel the way ahead of me. And I find myself stuck in the admiration of those who have their life, their home, their love, and their future decided by the honorable vows, “Until death do you part.”

Is there something wrong with me?
Is it true?
Am I a loser?
Does everybody hate me?
Do I deserve this?
Do I deserve to be alone? Or to die alone?
I ask this without worry about you or your opinions or your critiques or the feedback or pushback.

There are years behind me and battles that range from both an internal and external perspective.
There are countless mistakes and times when I measured myself or saw that I did not enough or that I did not fit or belong in my surroundings.
I hated these thoughts.
I hated these feelings.
Rather than exit with strategic thinking, or redirect myself and hold to a logic that better suited my needs; I pushed forward with the emotional ideas that were too afraid that somehow; it was me.
I am the misfit.
I am the inaccurate piece that brought chaos and discomfort instead of the balance and peace.

Have I settled?
Yes.
Have I settled before and failed and forgot to learn my lesson?

Yes
Have I tried to mold or fit in places that did not suit my edges or compliment my true version of self.
Yes.

Or like a puzzle piece, did I try to shove my edges into the picture, just to fit, or just to belong?
Yes.
Have I tried to convince myself that this could be me?
Have I tried to shave my edges so that I could fit in the unfit places? Have I done this, just to see if I could mesh or fit, or be at peace?
Absolutely.

I settled.
I took the trade.
I compromised. 

I negotiated and took the discounts and accepted the bargain in fear that I would be otherwise lost or alone and abandoned.
Or worse, I compromised my own integrity with the worst belief that somehow, I will always be the wandering soul or the ugly one.
Cast out like the enemies of Eden.

I believed that I had to cover myself to keep from being unsightly or unwanted.
I needed to lie or exaggerate and make up stories.
And yes, I was pathological.
Then again, pathology is nothing more than our personal science.
I thought that I had to hide or disguise my features to keep from being unmatched, unknown, unloved, and unfit.

These fears caused me to settle for less or to love anybody rather than love only somebody. 
I accepted the trade.
I settled for less because having less of something is far better than living with nothing (or no one) and rather than die alone, I nearly died in the wrong company. 

I never want to trade myself like that again.
But loss is loss.
I have listened and heard that people suggest this is nothing more than a pivotal moment in time, Maybe it is.
Maybe the rest is on me.

I do not want to compromise myself again or share myself in ways that are unfair to me or anyone else.
I realize this.
You cannot love the one you are with, just to love someone instead of no one.
Besides, that is not love and nor is this fair yet, I see this all too often and all too painfully because I admit that somehow; I allowed this to be me.

Not anymore.
If it was love then it was love.
And if it wasn’t love, then maybe I need to realize that the act is over and the play is finished.

Carly Simon wrote a song that ends,
“If it wasn’t love at all,
what were all those feelings,
can’t I just go on dreaming, tonight?”

I get that . . .

Bless me Father
For I
Am fortune’s fool.