I’ve been making an effort to not be a recluse. It’s difficult, but I think in the long run it will be beneficial to me to try and maintain this new-found ability to interact with people. The more I withdraw, the harder it is going to be when I finally decide to venture out again. My paranoia, if anything, is worse. I’m constantly assuming that people have ulterior motives for everything. I run through this list every time someone does anything nice for me or buys something for me. It seems like every generosity is expected to be returned. Granted, I am not one to mindlessly take, despite my personality. Material things are something I draw the line at. I don’t do charity. Chances are, you give me something I will try to refuse it. It’s always too good to be true, if life has shown me anything. What’s the saying about going one inch and someone taking a mile in return? I guess that’s what I mean.
The only way I can take anything is if I know I’ve given to someone else previously. Rarely though, there are certain people I think of as being unselfishly generous, at least in that they don’t expect anything material from me in return. Usually they want love or attention or something similar, or they’re the sort that get all fluffy inside at the thought of being giving. If it’s the former, it’s never stated, and if I don’t give it, there is little that can be done. In the end though, as self-centered as I might be, my sense of responsibility to others is outright ridiculous. Sometimes, it makes me think I deserve some sort of beating. There is absolutely no reason I should be so loyal, yet I am. I would go to lengths that other people couldn’t possibly imagine. Those people who claim they would die for you? They have no idea how much further it can go. I’ve been there, I’ve done that. I never thought I had any capacity for forgiveness, and I was right. I do, however, have a capacity to conveniently forget. I’ve been so angry and so hateful for so long, that I’ve forgotten where the feelings even originated from. The former arguments I used, they no longer have meaning. They sound hollow and insignificant now, even though that assessment couldn’t be any farther from the truth.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m still mean and fucking perpetually pissed off. That’s my nature. But all those past slights and injuries have faded into nothing more than a constant wariness. I remember why I must be wary, but I do not remember why it matters. Instinct, I suppose. I bury all my secrets in my mind, much like I used to do in the ground at that old house on the hill. They’re in that backyard somewhere, down deep with the worms. I must have dug a thousand holes looking for that box before I left. It was one of those metal cookie tins, all rusted and dented and probably from the 80s. It think it might have had Santa on it, but who can remember that far back? I buried all those hopes, and I buried all the pieces of me that I knew were going to make it harder to live. Everything is down in that fucking hole, just like it is now in my head. It’s so far down, so packed from years of forceful pressure, that I can’t get to it anymore. I can dig a thousand holes, but I’m not going to remember why.
I guess some things are better left unfound.