Doesn't matter what I tell my psychiatrist, when I leave, it always feels like I have been lying the whole time. Good, bad. An accurate and sincere description of the truth, doesn't matter. I try, I really try. Sometimes I exagerate my dark side. That makes him happy, because it makes sense from a psycopathological point of view, and lures me in. It's kind of funny, how my instinct to make others happy plays a part in convincing myself of the prevalence of my alleged narcissistic self.
Most of the time you kind of make a recollection of what the hell have you been doing this past months the hours prior, and then try to make a good representation of yourself. That's hard. Even when it's what we do most of the time. It's just that in this moments it feels more deliberate. We tell a story about ourselves and believe it, we are seduced by an explanation of who we are and we embrace it. We try to become ourselves, just sometimes we succeed, although that not necessarily happens in the direction we intended. It's retroactive. We try to become ourselves. That's a good way to put it. Representations are often more truthful than truth itself, that tends to be just... boring. Truth lacks the proper intensity and colors of the internal real imaginary world we live in, even when it's clouded by dark skies. It doesn't accurately communicate intent, desperation, or loneliness. That simplified version of ourselves is easy to handle, even to understand. They search for a villain within yourself and always find it. And you kind of believe what they say. You see how it could be truth, if you were indeed the person you are when you describe yourself. But when you are back to your room, and it's three in the morning, and the complex nature of reality expands through the darkness into every corner, you know that even the worst possible explanation of why you suffer is a lie.
I would really like to be able to talk with someone in nights like this. I could, honestly, but not to who I would want to. In my mind, in my experience, they always require a feminine confidant, but I think I have already burnt all my options down. I dream about these kind of conversations. I remember being fifteen and be typing with a girl until dawn. Those nights happened in a daze, in an alternate universe. The day after, you met her in a casual way and react as if nothing had happened. Because nothing actually happened. But it did. There was so much urgency, so much need for catharsis. So much, that vulnerability was worth the risk. Distance doesn't matter when we are always a moment of weakness away. You can't recreate that magic now, doesn't matter where or when. Even with those I still talk to, they wouldn't bear it. Don't want it, don't need it. I always have to paint to them the world pink, or they get scared, bored or run. What role do existential dilemmas have in a life already figured out? I've always disliked adults. Now more, that I am supposed to be one of them. That representation of functionality that ends up believing its self importance. The re-framing of their lives as something that's not a desperate struggle for love, power and survival.
Maybe it's my misogyny talking, but I have always found female empathy (if ever-present) a cruel gift to mankind; in order to protect herselves, they have to keep distance and label as toxic anything that expresses with them deeply. Making connections shallow, me feeling we should protect them maintaining a representation of the world, and ourselves, as something simple and infantile. I don't know. Maybe they didn't ask for the job to having to save the lives of every pathologically deprived of emotional connection guy in the world, but one doesn't always get the job one wants. They are condemned to represent the goddess, the unobtainable ideal in the minds of men for all eternity wherever they like it or not. I wonder if more woman are afraid to not live up to that than they are just bored or scared of us. I met a new girl today. It's been months since the last time that happened. Seriously, they hide, I don't know where. She was young, alive and crying. When I left, she laughed and said goodbye to me with a smile. I walked home stunned, like if I was just hit with a giant cartoon hammer. If girls didn't exist, we wouldn't ever, in a million lives, dare to imagine anything close to them.
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