When they hide

I feel like people are just running scripts that I already have memorized. I keep saying it, but it’s become ridiculous. Everything is linear and predictable if you look far enough ahead.

Today I was out. I had to work closely with someone I’ve never met before. I know him by reputation, I guess. But what does that really mean? I know him by the stories other people have told me about him? I know him by what he’s painted of himself for others to look at?

He’s a killer. It’s weird to call someone that, but it is what he is. And as one would expect of someone of that nature, he was little more than a husk of politeness and chivalry buried in male posturing and insecurity. Alpha male, they call it, but this is the subtle kind. Shaking hands and teacher hands, the kinds of hands I see when someone wants to impress things upon you. The slow drawl. It’s an entire mask, the parts all familiar.

The storyteller, the hero, the scary killer, in some cases. They’re just angles to pull people in. I can see how he has pulled in others, how eagerly they follow him to hear his stories and be part of his tale. I listened, amused. It’s like watching little kids hearing a scary bedtime story. He rehearses it, he must say it all the time. It’s just who he is now because he doesn’t have any other identity, so it comes out like a play, and pauses for effect. I might admire it if he was less heavy handed.

I ended up spending most of my time with him, having him fix something for me, which caused tensions with the cult members. And now I can see their shrinking little circle they’ve created. He, at the head, trying for godlike reverence with his humbleness mixed with action hero badassery, and the followers wanting to stand in the light and associations of such a figure. It would be funny if it wasn’t so tragic. It smells like daddy went off to buy a pack of cigarettes and never came back. That’s at the center of this little cult.

He seemed particularly interested in telling me his whole deal, so I let him. Later on when I was gathering up some things, I looked up across the forest and there he was standing in front of my car, looking directly at me. It was weird and uncomfortable, but I ignored it and went off to do something else. But I kept feeling it. That feeling where you know someone is watching you. And as I moved a chair and looked up, fuckhead was still standing there out by the car, staring at me. I finally asked him if he was coming down, and he immediately said no, and continued to stand there. Okay.

Eventually, I leveled with him. I wanted to see what he would do. And after he tells me his tale of woe, I ask him if he has PTSD. There’s a long pause. People want to be seen a certain way, they don’t want to talk about the consequences and emotions that follow their actions. Those things are not glamorous or worth a tale. They’re embarrassing and vulnerable, and if there is anything I’ve learned about emotionally unavailable men, it’s that they fear feelings more than anything else.

Then finally he says quietly, “yeah, probably”, and zips up his bag and walks away.

And there you have it. We can pack it up, boys, we got an answer. This is the most vulnerability this man is capable of.

Flying monkeys

It’s amazing what people will do when they realize they’ve lost control of you. When I was asking people for information about my father, whether or not they experienced abuse at his hands all those years ago, I had to reach out to multiple people from my childhood, people I hadn’t talked to in well over 20 years. But I did it because I knew I needed to. I dug up the past, like I said I never would.

I did it for that child, the one stuck in the house with my father still, the newest victim. Because it was the least I could do. Not just for him, but for myself. Even for my shitty cousin who got abused too. And while I’ll never speak to my cousin again, it doesn’t mean what happened to him is inconsequential or didn’t have a lot to do with how he turned out. But we make choices, don’t we? And I chose. And fuck me, there goes Pandora’s Box.

The responses I got, surprised me. Also the lack of responses. Some people wanted nothing to do with it. Others extended a hand only to try and pull me into a whole other nightmare I didn’t need. I could see the patterns this time, ones I didn’t understand as a child.

One of those people became obsessed. It was clear to me he was using me for his own validation, and while I learned more about my dad, it wasn’t worth the inevitable spiral that’s followed. I’ve blocked this guy on everything, but still he finds new ways to reach out. There’s something dark and awful there, and I could feel it before it became, whatever it is now. One of the messages was…disturbing. I should have left it and not read it, but I did, hoping he would say something that would prove it’s all in my head and I’m just insane and need to be locked up and fucking studied.

Instead, I couldn’t even finish it. He projected this entire reality onto a relatively short email exchange and blamed me for everything, framed himself as the ultimate victim, and tried to make it out like I was being unreasonable for not wanting to talk to someone who was legitimately creeping me out and pushing when I made it clear I wasn’t interested.

I’ve known this dude since I was 3 years old. I have some good memories with him, but also some bad. I saw a lot of his abuse and he saw some of mine. You can’t help but feel a kind of sorrow there, and even connection. But now it’s this twisted, ugly thing. The whole family feels that way. They were never good then either. Lots of belts and screams and constant fear. I stayed there often and I have not forgotten. It’s where all the kittens got shot and I saw real violence for the first time. It’s burned into my memory.

I remember being happy for him that he broke into acting and was getting modeling gigs. It was reassuring that someone came from something similar to what I did and “made it”, not in the societal sense, but in the “followed their dreams” sense. It was all he ever talked about or wanted. I remember helping him film things as a kid. It made me feel like I could follow my dreams too. And I did, in a way.

And then… when I spoke to him he was this empty shell of a human being. He gave me a polished version of his life like it was for an article in a magazine, straight in the face of discussing my dad and the things that happened back then. It felt like a slap, but I persisted because I saw glimpses of a person in there, maybe a person who made it through, but by hiding behind masks. I might know something about that.

But then it got dark and strange. He wanted to meet, he wanted to know if I was seeing anyone, he wanted me to validate his bullshit life, and it felt like drowning. And then the controlling, obsessive parts came through. He wouldn’t stop emailing. I just ignored him because it didn’t seem worth the energy, and clearly he was feeling something I wasn’t. He was reminding me of my ex that I had to have escorted off my property. The one that stalked me and went to jail for threatening me. It gave me pause.

The instincts said no. So I blocked and moved on.

But he keeps finding new ways to try and get to me. This time he used his sister. The very sister that ignored my message, suddenly wants to talk 8 months later, even though he told me “she never got a message from you, you must have sent it to the wrong account”. And she messaged me from that same account. How interesting.

This is the pattern and I see it now. I show people truth and rawness, but because they can’t manufacture it, they keep me around to make them feel real. It’s why I’ve dealt with copycats and people stealing my work. They show me what they think I want to see, so I show them a mirror. Some react hatefully, try to hurt me, others want to ride my coattails instead of making their own journey, from friends, to lovers, to therapists. They’ll make me feel like I’m going insane for just being who I am, because everywhere I turn it’s like a funhouse mirror, with their insecure images bouncing around the walls.

It sounds egocentric. I wish it was. But if you’ve ever had someone try to steal your person, your soul, you know what I mean. It’s the cost. People want power without the work, so they emulate what feels powerful to them, whether it is or not. I don’t think it’s powerful, I think it’s vulnerability that I have. And that is not something people come by easily. I think it draws them like a moth to a flame and confuses them, because they think they can have it without being it. So they “copy” it. Then take it out on me when it doesn’t turn out like they hoped. You can’t wield vulnerability and feel powerful if the vulnerability isn’t real. And vulnerability was never meant to be a sword: it’s a branch. Somehow, it makes me feel disgusted.

I remember your sister. She was a little bitch. We were best friends once, but she tried to hurt me. Many times. Then one day I saw her kicking a disabled girl with one of her friends and it made me realize what an insecure fuckwad she was. So I stopped her. I remember too, she would become her friends. First me, then the next one, the bully, then the volleyball star. She changes faces and follows whoever seems the most powerful to her. And now she’s following you. She’s one of them. The little mimics, I call them.

They are assimilators of personality, and while it might be sad to think of an empty husk walking around like a wayward ditto, I don’t feel sorry for her. Or for you. I tried to be kind and open to you, and like you all fucking do, you tried to twist it and control me. It’s too bad for you, I’m just using you as a case study. But I’m not going to bother validating your ego or seeing what you do. You’ll dance on your puppet strings all on your own, animated and without batteries.

I won’t go back. Not ever. I won’t be controlled, I won’t be manipulated, and I won’t be coerced into something I don’t want. I see you. I see all of you. You can’t gaslight me anymore, you can’t blame me, you can’t force me into your reality. You’re all just a bunch of selfish fucks who pursue your selfish whims, and in the end you don’t give a damn about me except for what I can provide you.

You want the fire? You want the lighthouse that helps you when you’re adrift? Too fucking bad. It’s mine.

Decoding a lie

I’ve found that many times when someone lies to you, it’s often because they’re insecure about something. When people react or respond, we tend to take it personally, wrapping it in egocentrism, framing it from our own subjective experience.

But the reality is, people don’t lie for us, they lie for themselves. The insecurity of exposure makes them paranoid enough to construct stories and tall-tales to mask those internal fears. It’s worth more to them to keep that insecurity hidden (often even from themselves), than to have a true connection with you.

It’s all about saving face…but with themselves. It’s rooted oftentimes in shame and low self esteem. Some even get a kick out of pulling the wool over someone’s eyes because it feeds into that alternate reality and version of themselves they’ve lied to attain. They also get feedback from you—you’re the oblivious recipient, after all. But no, it’s not about you. Or me. It’s about them, just like every other choice they make.

The last conversation I had with my mother taught me more than I ever wanted to know. I think of it here and there, when it gets too quiet. I sent her screenshots of what she said and she still outright denied it.

Instead of being hurt, it had been a test. I wanted to see what she would do when confronted by her own lies. Would she cave? Admit it? Or gaslight? She doubled down. She even called me a few weeks later after I had begun writing the letter to end all letters to her. She doubled down again. She even brought it up to fight with me. So I fought back, because at this point I had no horse in the race. It was just a game, and now she was the one losing, and that was a strange feeling.

It’s disheartening when you look back and see how other people manipulated you, used you for their own gain. They feigned intimacy, but they never gave anything at all. It was just a story they made up, a character they played. The loving, martyr mother. The loving, caring father. The kind aunt who offers you a new family. But really, you can just walk up, rip of their masks, and see the ugliness beneath. And there’s not a fucking thing they can do about it. They are so confident in their lies, they never question whether or not you’ll believe them.

Shallow puddles imitating an ocean.

Someone told me that I am a mirror, that I show people what it is like to live as I am, unashamedly, and that triggers a violent reaction in other people. Sometimes they try to hurt me, sometimes they try to befriend me, and sometimes they try to fuck me.

I make them feel their mask. Their meat suit. They realize I’m just doing it with no lies or pretenses, and that they can’t. Being real means being vulnerable. It means exposing yourself to another person and worrying that they will judge you and reflect back at you what you hate about yourself. It’s all fear.

They are afraid.

But I’m not. I tell people my story without reservation. I don’t care if I’m “too much”. “Too intense”, “too depressing”. I’m not going to design a caricature to be palatable to you.

You’re just not enough.

Instincts

There are two types of people: direct people, and passive aggressive people. Passive aggressive people don’t have the confidence to assert themselves publicly, so they do it in secret, oftentimes in such a way that it can’t be proven. Proof would mean consequences, and they can’t handle those either.

I know who did it, the issue is I can’t prove it. All I have is a feeling. But if I’ve learned anything throughout this year, it is that I should listen to those feelings. It’s chilling how a body knows when a mind denies. I guess that’s just trauma.

So I’m going to set a trap—I’ll even use bait. It won’t be too difficult, it’s mostly just catching him. I don’t know how I know. I don’t know what I saw that I can’t see logically, but it is there. Jealousy? Resentment? It’s hard to say why. I don’t generally find it easy to step into the shoes of someone like this. Their petty little grievances that they take out on you because they refuse to examine themselves.

But this one in particular strikes me as repressed, the kind that bottles it up and explodes like a grenade when his cup is too full, and he forces his foul mood on his nearest target that inflates his shortcomings.

I had never spoken to him despite seeing him regularly. I avoid him because I don’t like him for whatever reason (there are many reasons). Then a few weeks ago he went out of his way and introduced himself, tried to invite himself to learn from me. And he knew too much. Maybe that’s how I know. He knew what I was up to, what I’ve been doing. I don’t know him, yet he seems to know about me. He’s the weak link, the thing that stands out. He’s been watching, and he made that obvious.

If anyone did it, he did. And that little bitch is going to pay. You want to fuck with me from the shadows? Okay. You want to destroy my work? Try to hurt me? Think you’re going to skulk off and get away with it?

Smile, fuckhead, you’re on camera.

To be still

I don’t know if I’ve ever really stopped. I spent my whole life living up to other people’s expectations of me, even while thinking I was living for myself. I always kept going, forward, forward, forward. It just makes me think “boots, boots, boots”, because, yes. You don’t look back, you don’t look to the side. You look ahead and you move, and you hope that if you never stop that they won’t catch up with you.

You think it’s them. But instead it’s just their voices, the ones they gave you, and the ones that are still there when they’re gone. You really are just pieces of every person you meet, and some leave scars.

A place I always went, closed down. I’ve gotten to know a lot of people there, not intentionally, but through constant association. There was good, there was bad, but mostly I just made the best of being there for hours at a time, even when I didn’t want to be. It’s weird when you realize other people care that you’re there. Not in the “oh, people are thinking of me,” way, but in the “fuck me, I’m being perceived” way.

They gave out these little gifts for their favorite people they saw regularly, and while many people didn’t get one, I got four.

A man I know there walked up to me and said, “a lot of us must like you for you to get that many.”

It just never occurred to me that it even mattered. But I forget sometimes how much people like to be heard, and oftentimes I would sit in that chair and ask questions of the person across from me to pass the time while I waited. I’d ask about their life, about the people in it, about their dreams and who they wanted to be.

I’d sit and I’d listen, even if I was tired and not in the mood. Some of them I didn’t like. Some them I didn’t mind. I’d follow up at later dates and bring up things they mentioned before. “How did the interview go?” “Did you get that apartment?” “I remember you saying your mom was sick, how’s she doing?” “It was your birthday this weekend, I remember you saying you were renting a place. How did it go?”

I went out the back door quietly, because I didn’t want anymore goodbyes or phone numbers. It was like someone died. I walked out into the hot sun and felt like I’d been suffocated in a coffin underground. Everything was too bright and irritating, I wanted to get far away from them, and it wasn’t even their fault, really.

They don’t even know that I don’t want to know them. I do feel bad for that. I care, but not like that. Maybe I left quickly because I felt bad. I’m not sure. But I left and I haven’t gone back, and now it’s shut down anyway. I wanted to say I’m being avoidant, but the truth is there are people I want to see, but not them. I guess I just didn’t connect with anyone there, even if I didn’t mind some of them. They feel like setbacks. I wonder what it says about me that I think of people in these terms.

I want to be still, and I don’t want your noise or distractions, no offense to any of you. But I can’t heal with others, I have to heal alone, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to finally stop pursing constantly. I’m going to have a break, and I’m going to stop feeling shame and threads of guilt for doing it just because that is what I was taught.

Stop and you’re useless, they would say. Lazy. But I know what happens when you stop: it’s the place where you have to face everything you’ve ever done, confront what you’ve been running from. People who run can’t imagine that, so they make excuses and come up with explanations so that they never have to truly stop and examine themselves in the quiet where there is no work or relationships to distract them.

I ran too. I get it. But that’s not what I am anymore. And I know there’s more to face and I’m not going to like it. But I also know it’s what I have to do.

Finality

I cut the last cord, the pathetic little tether. Maybe I should feel sad or lonesome, but instead it feels like the air I breathe is new, fresh, like I opened up a window in a stuffy room.

I have no family now. I am just one. I cut out every single person, anyone who could tie me to that past I no longer care about. They became worthless—I don’t even know when. Maybe it was last month or the month before, or maybe they always were and I just finally caught on to the fact. I asked myself, “should this be so easy?”

But all I see is a clear path forward, and people from before don’t belong anymore. I can’t stomach them. The cowardice, the lies, they make me feel nothing but disgust, even pity. I can’t imagine not living a life that is true, one where I shackle myself to a false reality because I’m too weak to bear the truth. But so many people have and do, and they convince themselves of its authenticity, even when deep down they can feel they’re standing in shifting sand.

Where does this go? I don’t know. But now it makes me smile. There is nothing but the sunny sky ahead and a field of swords and betrayals behind. But I don’t have to wander there ever again, smell all that death, because it holds nothing, not even its ghosts compel me to turn to look lest I become a pillar of salt.

Goodbye. May I never see you again.

Wings

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. That’s only if you’re stagnant. What it really does is make the past ugly. It ruins those painted memories, shatters those pedestals. You’re stuck staring at your own obliviousness, wondering with a deep sigh if you conveniently just shut off your brain for extended periods of time, because how else could you possibly not see what was right in front of you?

But no, it’s just trauma. You get used to a certain kind and then you chase that for the rest of your life, in varying forms. But deep down, it’s simplistic and boring.

My parents were boring. They’re exactly what I would have rolled my eyes at if someone had told me about them and they weren’t my own. I would have said “who cares? They sound like assholes.” And I wouldn’t have been wrong.

I can see too, the patterns in my own relationships. The push/pull of them, the predictable high/low bullshit. The anxious avoidant attachment style. I used to be a sucker for avoidants. I found one recently and now they are positively repellant, as much as the anxious ones are. I get the gnawing in my stomach like if I’m not rid of it soon, I will forcefully extract it. People who avoid emotions live in a hell they made themselves and they try to drag you with them.

I guess that’s healing or whatever. What you used to like feels slimy and awful, it makes the hairs on your arms stand up, or is else you are suddenly stricken with indifference as though it is a worsening disease until they just disintegrate from your mind entirely. Even ones that were once powerful objects of obsession become completely unpalatable. People I never thought I would get over. Memories I thought I would never shed.

Now when I think of my dad I just think of him crying in the shower and how it was just his way of manipulating me. It makes every positive interaction feel like it was laced with poison.

I know. I see you. All of you. You can’t hide from me. I see what you are and what ails you, and I find it empty and uninspiring.

I got rejected recently for being too emotionally open. And something about that has been making me smile the last few days. I thought I would be more sad, but after the initial disappointment wore off, I thought how awful it would be to have to shrink again like I did my whole life. I’d have to make myself small and emotionally shallow, and I’ve realized that I’m no longer capable. I can’t be like that ever again, and I won’t change for anyone but myself.

I also blocked fuckhead and still can’t write the proper response to the one who actually deserves it. I think I’m going to go see him instead because I left it a little weird.

So many fearful fuckers. And it makes sense now, doesn’t it? My parents were emotionally stunted, manipulative cunts, and guess what I run into all the time?

A dark fate

There was a night a long time ago, a night that came to me when I was laying down for bed. I could smell the fresh-cut grass, remember the feeling of the cold blades on my bare feet.

I used to sneak out a lot. I would walk out in the dark onto that expansive lawn, when all the other kids were asleep. I’d go out and look at the stars. The sky was this great expanse of endless black, speckled with twinkling stars and planets. Sometimes I’d go hide under the trampoline in case anyone came looking for me. The moonlight was bright enough to walk to, but the shadows were inky black.

Their house was on a mountain top, while I lived in the valley below. Sometimes, not too long after dinner, you’d hear them. But this night, they were different.

The howls and yips were excited. They echoed across the rock, sounding like cackling. I remember the chills I got from it. Somehow, I knew these were different from the usual nightly calls. I even went inside early, disturbed by the strangeness of it. I’ll never forget it. Ominous. I heard some dog barks too, and thought, “what are they up to?”

A few months later I was walking up the mountain, looking for the pond that showed up in the spring. It had been drier than usual, and when I got there, it was nothing but dry, cracked earth like what you see in desert nature documentaries. There were no frogs or snakes like there usually was. There was no cool water to swim in. I remember being disappointed.

I walked by some rocks and saw a glint, smelled that sickly sweet smell. Buried between some stones, was a collar. Bones were scattered about, and a partial skull.

A dog got his collar stuck in the rocks somehow, trapped. I tugged on the collar and it was stuck. I remembered the night from a few months ago, the foreign lengthy howls of excitement, then the intermittent barks of fear.

They ate him alive.

They come back

Sometimes you can’t shake someone. And it’s not because they like you or care about you, no, it’s just a need for control and validation. They show up right when they sense you improving, when they know you’re slipping away from them. It’s never about you. It’s about their selfish needs, their ego.

Someone told me recently that people remember how you made them feel, not necessarily your words.

What did you see looking into the mirror I showed you? I gave you emptiness, just like you gave me. And now you’re angry? Now you’re going to harass me until I respond? You’re going to woe is me, and think that I care? I haven’t even had time to like you.

I don’t think of you at all. You’re an annoyance when I drink my morning coffee, then it’s gone. I don’t remember again until there’s another message. That’s three in a row, over some months, and now instead of thinking about you, I’m wondering if some people are like those pigeons that pecked themselves to death because a little machine once gave them corn, then mysteriously stopped. I used to be like you.

Is that what people do? Peck themselves to death over the wishful thinking? You got it once, you’ll get it again? Just keep pecking? You’re like a polished Instagram reel and it makes me feel disgusted. Tired. Bored. But you have a lot in common with the other ones. I can see it now. You saw the depths and wanted some for yourself but you didn’t want to pay the price.

It’s everything.

The price is everything. And if you won’t pay it? Well, then you get nothing, as you’ve discovered. I’ll take it all or I’ll take nothing. It doesn’t matter to me. I know that’s hard for people like you to understand, that I could like this, enjoy it, even. But it’s true.

It doesn’t matter what I get when I already have everything that I need. What a strange fucking thought. I don’t know if it is happiness, but it is something. Peace. Everything has become just noise and I shrug and move on instead of painful lamenting over and over again, pointlessly. It’s like God turned the volume down. I can’t hear the anxiety like I used to. I’m just…here.

And whatever they do doesn’t matter at all.

Can you at least make your lies believable? You’re embarrassing

Do I have a sign over my head? One that says “yes, please, come bother me”? Is that what it is? It must flash like a neon sign right after the clock strikes midnight, because that’s always when it happens.

And what about having a conversation with me, made you turn your car around and come back to talk to me again after I sent you packing the first time? It wasn’t even my words that deterred you, it was the gun that finally made you leave, let’s not be coy here.

You got out of your car to come at me, and uh, suddenly had a change of heart when the wind blew my robe back. I can’t imagine why. Not an easy victim anymore? Oops. I do walk around in a bad neighborhood in pajamas, a bathrobe and flip flops, so you’d think that would be a clear indication that I couldn’t take this any less seriously. Maybe the gun seems out of place in retrospect…

Word of the wise: when you’re trying to build a good lie, don’t call the person you’re trying to convince, a bitch. It just makes them certain that you’re lying. It also doesn’t particularly endear them to you, either. You need my help? At 12am? In your van? After you said ten other lies that didn’t make any sense, now suddenly you need my help? Okay Ted Bundy.

Also, your van has no plates, you stupid, sketchy dumbfuck. You might as well write “free candy” on the side, or whatever the adult equivalent is (free computer? Free iPhone?). You can’t abduct me; I’m a fucking Karen.

And whatever you were shouting at me when you were driving away, I heard none of it. Maybe stop bothering bitches playing ball with their dog in the middle of the night. Mind your business. Go abduct someone that has time for that.

God. Fucking amateurs. I also got you on camera, asshole. Circling the parking lot over and over parking in different spots, and then driving up to a woman at 12am in a deserted area is not going to convince me of your uh “innocence”, then getting out of the van to come at me because I don’t want to help you? Tsk tsk.

Gave me a good laugh though. I hope you shit your pants. I’ve never seen a motherfucker scramble so fast to get back in his creeper van. You were awful bitter about it. Too bad.