Walls And Holes

I put these little walls up to protect myself. I hope that by somehow putting some space between me and other people, that it will keep me from getting hurt. I have this hope that by avoiding certain topics or politics or religion, that somehow that is going to keep me safe. Every time I get hurt, a new wall goes up. A little taller than the last one.

It started when I was young, when I used to think,

“oh, that topic and/or subject really upset that person and/or group when I expressed my opinion, so I just won’t discuss it with them anymore.”

But then I start noticing that that topic really upsets most of the people I care about, and the wall becomes a hole. A hole I can’t share with anyone, and that makes the hole bigger. I end up with so many holes I end up just listening to people, because I am afraid to say anything upsetting to people I care about.

As I build up more and more holes, eventually I end up with these blind spots, where the walls have gotten so high that I can’t see others for who they really are because I know in my heart of hearts that they just want to hurt me. They want to knock down the walls and stab at my fleshy bits. The parts of me that I used to share with others, but now they’ve just gotten so they retract when others are around so I can play the character of me, but never the real me, because the real me doesn’t want to be hurt anymore. The holes should have kept them away, and the walls should have repulsed them, but now I’ve gotten lost in the maze of walls and holes. Now I don’t even know how to find the real me, or even if I want to.

Isolating and hope

I find that I isolate a lot more than I used to. Even when I do socialize with others, after about a half hour, I am done. I just want to go back to my cave and play with my toys. The adult equivalent of sticking my fingers in my ears and screaming “BOLSHEVIK!” over and over. It’s not that I don’t like my friends and/or family, it’s just that I don’t want to be bothered. I know that, whomever it is, they are just a few weeks short of betraying me. Or dying. But the dying thing is new. I know everybody dies eventually, but I’m waiting for the third one. Death comes in 3’s right?

I’m supposed to be looking for hope. I just can’t find her. I’m not sure I even want to anymore, because won’t that just lead to more disappointment? I’ve been building these walls for decades now. They are incredibly high and only getting higher. I find that I don’t want to share anything personal with anyone because I swear it’s just going to end badly. I don’t want to share my music because I call bullshit on all my friends. Not to be a dick, but I feel like either people are so excited to know somebody who can make a computer go “bloop-bloop” that they think anything is good. Or they tell you it’s interesting because they don’t want to hurt your feelings.

THERE’S A WALL RIGHT THERE, YOU PRETENTIOUS FUCK!!

See what I did? I just made it so anything anybody says about my music is negated. If they say it’s good, they are lying Brilliant. Way to go, mr. Musician man! God forbid I expose those fleshy bits. I can’t even let that out. I know the thing to do is keep pushing forward. Keep making your own scene. Keep sharing until it hurts. But what if it hurts already, even without the sharing?

Ok, let’s try this again…

Honesty and owning guilt

For the last year or so I have become more and more obsessed with privacy online. Even looking into turning one of my old MacBooks into a linux laptop. I have been more and more worried about my info leaking or people figuring out who I am, even to the point of censoring myself when posting because I have become paranoid about the government reading my blogs and punishing me because of my views and/or beliefs. Being one of those lefty libtards has not helped things. Believing whole-heartedly that there is zero difference between smoking a joint and drinking a beer is not assisting my cause. Feeling pretty strongly that as long as what you do does not infringe on my rights, I could care less if you want to marry a goat, own a 100 guns and fire them at bowling pins, or have an abortion. I don’t think we need a tiny government, but I do think some efficiency could help. My point is, these beliefs seem to be getting trampled more and more by free speech lovers.

But isn’t it possible that this self-censorship is related to the walls I have put up? Isn’t there the slightest chance that my need to hide from the bad actors online is really just me hiding from my true self? I have begun to feel like the walls I have built have cornered me into thinking that my tribe isn’t actually out there. That the real reason I feel like every group of people I associate with aren’t good enough for me has to do with me not feeling good enough for anybody else. Maybe possibly I have become so scared of anyone and everyone else is because I am scared of the true self that is me? The parts of me surrounded by holes and then walls a thousand miles high.

My whole life I have felt a tremendous sense of guilt. I have tried to lay that guilt on so many events in my life that I have no idea if it was any of those problems or maybe it was all of those problems. Feeling like my parent’s divorce was my fault, feeling like I traumatized who knows how many of my classmates by bringing a backpack full of porn to school in fifth grade, feeling like anyone I have dated, with the exception of one woman, was just somebody who liked me so I tried to figure out a way for me to fall in love with them, Being a mooch off of society for going on thirty years now by not having a job…All of these are things that I have tremendous guilt over. Still. And each of them makes a giant wall of self-defense to keep others from getting to know the real me. Which, in turn, becomes a hole I can never discuss, because instead of hurting others, it hurts me.

I don’t know the answers. I am one guy trying to figure out how to be a productive member of a society that places major taboos around some of my defining characteristics. My grandmother told me when I was pretty young that she could see I was a non-conformist and always would be. My favorite aunt always said I was ornery, and both of these stuck with me. Not sure why I think they are related, other than in my need to rebel against everything. To speak truth to power, but in a compassionate way, so that maybe just for once power would hear what I am truth-ing.