I’ve long known that I am one of the kinds of people that drive me the craziest. They say you hate in others the worst part of yourself. People who are insecure and feel less worthy than everyone else yet also have this grandiose self view where the world revolves around them and they are larger than life—meant for something great. Two completely conflicting, contradicting, extreme, deluded self perceptions.
Hello, nice to meet you. I’m Brandon Witt, and I am a. . . whatever the word is that describes the above—no, you can’t narrow it down to asshole—well, you could, but don’t. (Now, you all say in unison, “Hello, Brandon.”)
The past several months, as you may have noticed have been pretty eventful, and at the times when it’s not overly eventful in my real life, it has been in my heart and head. This week, culminating with last night (an no, I’m not going to give specifics—feel free to speculate with abandon), events have shown me that I’ve been playing the part of a fool—the part of a person wallowing around in a pit of coals, too distracted by the fire in the distance to notice the sizzling of his own skin.
Part of the afore mentioned personality deficiency has made it where my pain and hurt has taken over every part of my existence—in rather an ostentatious manner. The effect being that while I have been so focused on both how much I am really hurting and a variety of ways of dealing and suffocating the pain, that I really haven’t looked at how much I truly am hurting (I know that makes no sense to anyone not inside my psyche). I am coming to realize that some of the ways I have been trying to make my hurt manageable show how much I have no (or have lost) respect for myself and put myself in negative and at times frightening situations. In other words, the world is wrapped up in my pain, yet I deserve the shit I get—how’s that for fucked up inner talk?
I am only now really beginning to see how truly deep Chad’s leaving affect who I think I am. No matter how gently and compassionately he left and continues to be, the message I have taken (and I know this is where I always go with anything, but so much more this time) is that the core of me is not enough. Not enough to love for very long. Not enough to stay for. Not enough to skip the party or the lures of the world. Not enough to build a life with. Not enough to hold or really desire. Not enough.
The danger of that message comes when you’re so self-absorbed that it encompasses everything within. I knew it was there, but I wasn’t really able to look at how much it really has taken a hold. The events of late are bringing that to the forefront. And, in order for me to change the events and the outcomes and the possibly avoidable consequences, I have to look at it even more—and then sit with it and deal with (fun, fun)—not try to drown it in a variety of ways.
Right now, I don’t where I will end up with all of this, or who I will be at the end or even how much of me will be left. However, it has to be done if there is any chance of any good part of me remaining.
I don’t think the answer is trying to understand why I wasn’t, why I’m not, enough for him. I don’t think it’s in trying to be enough for someone else (not that I want someone else). It’s also not in a bunch of positive self-talk garbage. Nor is it in singing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ continuously. Maybe it’s just in seeing the reality of my life, looking at its darkness and glimmers of gold, not trying to wrap it up in neon cellophane, but just letting it be what it is and teaching myself to crawl and hopefully then to walk, one shuddering step at a time, not shying away from the midnight, and not taking my eyes of the pin-pricks of brilliance that alter the seeming impenetrableness.
I have never felt less capable of something in my life. The thought of it scares. It seems I have hurt so much even with all I have done to numb the pain—the idea of facing it unaltered is terrifying, beyond. However, I also know that there isn’t another choice—not really.
Black Coffee Tables
1 year ago