My last post is an example of what my old blog was like. Full of that. Is it any wonder that I couldn’t think straight after a while? Everything I wrote was either directly aimed at someone or designed to make someone think it was aimed at them. It wasn’t collateral damage; I was lining the poor bastards up without them even realising. It’s not a nice thing to do.
I was a lot more arrogant back then. Was it to cover up my insecurities? Absolutely. But on some level I did actually believe the things I told myself. Deep down, I believed I was a good writer. I believed that I was going to make something charming that would live forever. I genuinely thought there was something special about me, because I seemed to have an effect on people and I’ve never worked out why. I seemed to be able to put other people’s thoughts into words they wouldn’t even dream of.
I thought I could make magic. Maybe I was meant to do something good with my life, something useful.
Now I can’t even take a compliment. Somebody genuinely breathtaking tries to make me feel better about myself and I start bawling my eyes out because I don’t feel like I deserve any kind of approval. I don’t know why I apologise so much. I’m hardly ever genuinely sorry. I just worry that I’m going to make someone feel any kind of negative emotion, and then they’d hate me, and that would just confirm how awful I am. I do it to everyone, and I don’t mean to.
I’m really quite angry that I ended up this much of a wreck. I never used to be. I don’t know what happened.
Did someone else do this to me? Well, it would explain it if I had some kind of previous relationship where I was belittled and abused or if I’d been told by someone who mattered that I wasn’t any good at what I was trying to do. But neither of those things have ever happened. I’ve had some shitty ex-boyfriends but nothing like that. And in all honesty, no one has ever said anything particularly awful about my writing or any of the other things I dabble in. Not that I can remember, anyway. I’ve had criticism, but only ever of the constructive kind.
In actual fact, people have been unbelievably nice to me. I’ve always been sincerely surprised at their kindness. But still, at some point I’d panic and delete everything I let them read. I’d go back into hiding, back into the comfort of the shadows.
These words – those old words, these ones here, whichever – could be here forever. Human forever, at least. And none of my words ever feel perfect enough. I can never capture the essence of what I’m trying to say. I try, and I try, and blogging is so much more perfect for this than a journal because I can cut and copy and move and paste and make it as good as it can be. But it’s never enough. So I get rid of it all. I shred binary. I take my full wastebasket back home with me and hide it on memory sticks that I try to forget about.
If it wasn’t anyone else who made me feel so wretched, then that just leaves me. I did this to myself, somehow. My own thoughts – these very words I usually play with so nicely – turned against me and bit and scratched until I was too weak to keep them under control.
Why on earth would they do that? Why would I let that happen?
I could be so much better if I stopped the self-sabotage. But I’m really fucking scared of what might happen. And that’s why I was crying. I’m not angry at myself, I’m just extremely disappointed.
Why are we compromising?