The Becoming

Everybody hurts… sometimes.

I knew a girl a long time ago that claimed that happiness is only forgetting our pain temporarily. I didn’t understand, couldn’t understand how she could feel that way. I was determined for a little while to prove to her you can just be happy. I think there were a few times where she was just happy in all the time I spent with her… in fact I like to think she gave up pain for a little while, but I’ll never know. I don’t talk to her anymore. I’ll never talk to her again.

I knew a boy a long time ago whose, the majority of the time, only motivation was the opinion of others. I mean I know that its definitely a generalization and simplification, there was more to him than that, but that was a snowball that got larger and larger over time. He made a couple mostly original things, but the first really shared project he made… was a copy of somebody else’s more famous work. So I don’t think it’s unreasonable to characterize him this way. He would share original things I made with other people and somehow feel good about it, maybe like he made it. He was intrigued by me, and loved me, partly because, I think, I had my own motivation, my own thoughts, my own spark of originality. Was I always the best of friends? Not really. I attempted suicides, I was SUPER drama-lamma most of the time, I was all over the place. But sometimes I wonder if his behavior came from dealing with a kind of pain. A pain that required escape into other people. I have no idea, and I’ll never know. I don’t talk to him anymore. I’ll never talk to him again.

I knew a young man a pretty good time ago who was really in pain. I know he hid things from me, like his own opinions, his own thoughts, his own anxiety, his own mental illness. Everything about him was fake. And I knew that, or gradually came to know it, but I was so enamored with having a best friend and doing stuff, I didn’t care. Together we shared this sick platonic relationship that in the end only hurt other people. When it was time to say goodbye and push him out of my life (for I realized he was taking advantage of me), he told me that he wished he could be like me, he wished he could be like Maus, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t be a real person he was in so much pain. The last thing he told me, I believe the only truly real thing he told me, was that he had a problem. I told him that I knew that, but I couldn’t help him anymore. And that was that. I don’t talk to him anymore. I’ll never talk to him again.

I have come to know and meet a lot of people who are in pain, and every one of them (those not related to me) was temporary. I’m always eventually alone, often times by my own hand. And sometimes, that’s painful. I’ve come to think that everyone is in pain in some way. That’s part of being alive. And in a way, everyone has that one thing, that button, that screw, that number to get that hits upon that pain like a hammer. And when it does they either implode, or explode.

So I’m not really that special when I say that most of the time, in some little or big way, I hurt. That’s life. It’s a pain that I’ve accepted. But acceptance doesn’t make it go away. And I do things out of pain too. One of the motivations for my fursuiting is probably rooted in some pain, or really, it could all stem from pain… I don’t know. I like to think it comes from a happy place, for happy reasons, and it does. That’s probably how the people I knew felt too.

My partner doesn’t understand my pain. When I tell him I’m sad almost all of the time, it’s just a matter of how sad, he says, “Then what’s the point of anything?” When I lay on the floor, my world swirling around me, the dark vortex laying on my mind… the things he says sometimes make me feel more alone than with someone. Sometimes, I’m really messed up, and I can’t share those moments with anyone. I can’t explain them, I can’t express them in simple sentences, they just are.

In my world I have what I call emotional spaces, or outlooks. It’s kind of like an emotional philosophy on life, the way you see the world through an unspoken emotional lens. I’ve been told emotions are simply automatic responses to various stimuli and that you can reprogram your subconscious programming, but I don’t really look at them that way. Most of the time my outlook will be one way, and I’ll constantly feel at least a tinge of that emotion, that sense of life. And then, it’ll gradually change to something else, some other outlook, some other over arching emotion. I like some more than others.

I spent two and a half years stuck in one emotional space, one outlook, one problem, and one obsession. I didn’t wake up every morning dreading the day to come, I fell asleep dreading the next day. I hated myself so bad. I can’t express how depressed I was, how tortured I was, how awful I felt every single moment. My mind scraped on the edge of the day every day. To me, that was an emotion, an outlook, that just wouldn’t leave for a really long time. Every once in a while, I’ll dream that something somebody did something inappropriate and I’ll feel all of that again. I say in my dream, “Why does it have to be this way? Why is it this way again?” I still have that outlook, in some ways, but I’ve grown past it. I’ve learned to control it instead of it controlling me.

For quite a while, it seems since I was put on medication only, or even maybe before that, I haven’t really felt anything like that. Maus says that this is a normal thing, that most people don’t feel something all the time. I don’t regard my life as a story, but I sometimes have emotions as if it was a story. I feel something all the time, and the one thing that never goes away, that I can default to, that I can always lean on by habit, is my pain. It feels like my heart sinks into my chest, and that I’m staring out into a sky full of nothingness ready to swallow me up.

My mother says it’s the medication that is probably doing this to me, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. With medication I have to deliberately force myself to do things, and force myself to remind myself to have an outlook… otherwise I default to blankness. I just do the same things every day: go to class, or work on the computer, watch Golden Girls again (for the 500th time), sometimes clean the apartment and sleep. I don’t put anything else in my head, and I don’t feel.

When I’m in pain, I am confronting who I am, or at least who I think I am. I don’t have a very good opinion of myself, but it’s not the, “Oh, I’m awful, I’m stupid, I’m bad, I don’t deserve love, nobody likes me…” variety. It’s this belief that somehow, I’m different from every other male I know. I grew up until a certain point, and then, I stopped. While others grew into men around me, I kept getting bigger and bigger and I didn’t really know what to do about it. This is probably why sometimes people have told my mother, or myself, that I have a childlike openness and energy to me. My nurse practitioner Carole told me this one time, she said I was “raw”.

Periodically, when I’m in pain, I’ll wish my life was a furry comic. Particularly, Associated Student Bodies by Lance Rund. There’s just something about that college slice-of-life story, those characters, that give me a feeling; an outlook that I wish I could have all the time. I’ve really enjoyed being friends with a younger opera singer that I am friends with through Pablo. That’s because she does things. She’s alive. One my most recent and fondest memories is when our car overheated on Trail Ridge and we kind of just had an adventure. Thank god we came out okay, but it was an adventure and I was doing something, I had personality, I was living in a furry comic.

I’ve lived a long time not really doing anything in particular. Not having activity or drama in my life. I’ve gotten very good at cutting out every stressful thing from my life completely because I had to, to survive… and that’s not necessarily a good thing. I don’t feel alive, I just feel like I’m sitting in nothingness. And when I do feel alive, all I can feel is this black vortex ready to suck me in and rip me apart. I feel the best alive when I do things like fursuit… or run out of gas on Trail Ridge, watch the lunar eclipse, or drive with my brother from California in one night. But not every day can be like that.

I stare at myself in the mirror sometimes, trying to see inside my eyes. Trying to see my own soul through my own eyes, but it never really works. Everything has a cost, and the price of some of the things in my life have been steep. I want to get better. I always want to get better. I force myself to confront myself all the time in the hopes of getting better. And lately, I’ve wanted to be a real person. A real person that’s alive. I have been a real person before, but I slide, I relapse into nothingness.

I don’t know what the point is of sharing all of this on a website where any skeez can read it. I guess I have to put it out there somewhere, and I don’t really have a friend to tell this to besides Maus. So in a way, I’m taking an even bigger plunge. I’m telling everybody. Maybe someone out there feels like I do.

I think I was affected a long time ago, very early on. My character was disturbed. And that’s when I first felt pain. It was so intense I couldn’t even know it or process it for decades. But, eventually as my intellectual capabilities bloomed, or grew unwillingly, I felt it. It hurts my insides so bad. Sometimes I can’t even move, and sometimes I can’t even speak (though the medication has helped that). There’s just infinite tears.

I think it all started coming back, started unraveling when I went to CU and attempted suicide the first time. Things were different back then. There were no cell phones. I didn’t want to have my roommate hear what I was saying, so I’d call my mother up on the pay phones and cry and cry and cry. The internet was still in its infancy, YouTube didn’t even exist yet (or at least was not very popular). I don’t even remember having any kind of Facebook (I had a LiveJournal). I could barely understand my homework, I couldn’t make any friends, I didn’t know anyone and nobody knew me. One time I solved a calculus based physics problem using a trigonometric method I learned in High School. At recitation I made the mistake of raising my hand and stating that I solved it a different way. The TA told me to show him on the board. I was quite proud of this. When I turned around, all these smart students who had taken calculus in high school (I got up to pre-calculus) looked at my solution, raised their hands, and told me what I wasn’t taking into account: what was wrong and why my method was unsatisfactory. I didn’t even understand what they were saying. I felt the smallest, most dumbest, most helpless than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.

One time when I was in-patient, really the first time and I had my hair dyed black, the nurse asked me, “Why are you obsessed with death?” She was reading more into my black hair and not enough into me, but I replied, “I’m not obsessed with death. I’m obsessed with the things that make me want to die.”

I think I’m always obsessed with something, subconsciously. I’m obsessed with something unpleasant, a feeling, a delusion. I think I’m small. I think that in some way or some form I’m physically and psychologically deformed. I’m smaller than everyone else I know, and it’s not even size, it’s stature. Stature is your ability to have real command over your life and what you get out of it. It’s a combination of competence and aggression. That’s something I often feel I don’t have. I haven’t really shared that with anyone outside of my partner, my mother, and use to be therapists, but I’m sharing it here, now. Maybe in some way, this is my way of finding some stature, putting myself out there and just declaring it. That perhaps by declaring it, by putting it out somewhere besides myself, I can accept it.

I used to lie in bed at night, several years ago, and say, “I’m small.” Maus would reply, “You’re not small.” I’d rebut, “I am small, but, it’s okay to be small.” It is okay to be small, it’s just painful sometimes. One time my mother stood me up next to my father, and showed me that we were the same size. I came back with the fact that he was much stronger than me, but my mother pointed out that we were just as tall, just as wide, and just as stubborn. Yet, I can’t believe it. I have been told this is a delusion, that this is some form of body dysmorphic disorder, but I can’t understand it as anything but true.

I used to have people in my head. Truly, I had a person in my head, just at different ages. I don’t have them anymore, I don’t hear them anymore. That’s good, in a way, because sometimes they’d be dead and times got hard. His name is Kadar. He’s eight years old, at least he used to only be eight years old. Then there was a sixteen year old, and then there was a twenty-three year old. I think one of the side effects of my anti-psychotic is not being able to pay attention to them. Lately, every once in a while, I miss Kadar. Could he be another temporary friend? In my own mind?

I put myself out there, I wear my emotions and heart on my sleeve, and I dream with anyone who will listen. People take advantage of that, and in fact, at times I let them take advantage of that. Why? Because, at the time, I’ll take anything to placate my need for other people. Even now I overshare, spilling my guts out, for no real purpose. In the end, as everything I put on the internet lies dead in the water, I’m just talking to myself.


I'm just a wunk, trying to enjoy life. I am a cofounder of http// and I like computers, code, creativity, and friends.

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