Everybody Hurts

Even me.  And so does my fiance.  But I don’t know what to do about it.

He’s been frustrated at work, rightfully so, and he’s exhausted and scared.  I know that, as a concept, but I guess I don’t express it or show him.  He told me today (and he said it the other day, too) that he thinks I “just don’t understand what [he’s] going through.”  Last time he said it, I didn’t say anything.  Today I told him he was right.  I softened it by saying I’ve never been in his situation, so no, I don’t know what it’s like, but I know he’s upset and I know he’s being exploited.  Other than that, what do I do?

I don’t really know what the interplay is between empathy and oxytocin is, but it appears there is one.  I read about one study where it increased the capacity for empathy in men.  I’m reading a book right now that says lack of empathy (to the point of autism) is an extreme expression of a “male mind.”  I’m not going to worry about the misogynistic implications there, because frankly, I think it’s correct (I hate nothing more than talking about feelings with other women, like many men).  I don’t know if I have a poorly or non-functioning amygdala.  I’ve never had a brain scan.  However, I do suspect I have the ability to produce oxytocin.  I don’t think it’s horribly impaired, if at all.  I think the fact that I’ve really only ever felt “bonded” to my sex partners (and no one else, but my mother comes close) probably has something to do with a hormone that is released when people kiss and touch and orgasm.  I saw it on TV that exchanging saliva stimulates oxytocin production.  So I’ve been trying to kiss him with more tongue lately.  I’m trying the only real way I know how.

It hurts me that I don’t understand him.  I adore him.  I don’t mind cleaning his butt fuzz off the toilet, or picking up the trash he leaves next to the trash can, not in the can.  I want him to be happy with me.  

 

And yes, I am totally playing R.E.M. while I write this.

“I’m bad, and that’s good. I will never be good, and that’s not bad. There’s no one I’d rather be, than me.”

I like to joke a lot and say extremely narcissistic things to people, or in a crowd, and people think it’s funny, because I don’t think they could believe I really feel that way.  The thing is, I believe everything I’m saying, but I know it’s fucked up.  I don’t think I’m wrong for how I feel, and I can justify the most horrifying of actions, but I know I’m different, and I know I’m not normal, and certainly not what I’d call right.  Of course, I can turn that to my benefit because it makes me special.  But yes, I still know right from wrong, and I know that the behavior I poke fun at is not acceptable in society, and I try to fit in.  We watched Wreck-It Ralph the other night.  It was better than I was expecting (only because my boyfriend didn’t explain that it starred John C Reilly and Jane Lynch), and I actually found it a little bit uplifting.

I have always wanted to get married.  The thought of someone promising to love me forever has always excited me, and every time I get into a new relationship, from the very beginning I ask, “Could this be it?”  I’ve had a lot of men fall in love with me, at least that’s what they said, over and over, while I insisted they did not.  A few weeks ago, my fiance pulled me close to him on the couch and put his arm around me.  All of a fucking sudden it hit me: he did that because it felt good to him to hold me, just like when it felt good to me to cuddle with him.  It was the first time I had ever noticed that in the two decades I have been slutting around this planet.  I think that may have had a reason it was so hard to believe anyone loved me (that, and like, the abuse).  But you know, I always found “proof” they didn’t love me, usually the fact that at some point, they tried to break up with me (or succeeded and we reunited).  Once that happened, no matter when in the relationship, that’s when the real cheating would begin.  I would occasionally turn tricks behind their backs if I wanted money (or just because I fucking like it), but that’s not really cheating since it’s just a job and I’ll never see that guy again (well, I saw some of them again. One guy wanted me to come back and play with his girlfriend while he watched.  That bitch was so coked up it was ridiculous, she was naked and bouncing on her tippy-toes when she walked around and just totally out of it.  I fucked her with a dildo on the couch.  She just flopped around and looked blank.  I wouldn’t be surprised if she died that night.)

Once the cheating started, it was all downhill from there.  If they didn’t love me, it didn’t matter if I cheated on them, it couldn’t hurt them.  Even if it did, I didn’t care.  I don’t owe anyone anything if they don’t adore me.  Although I can say I ended it with most of my boyfriends, it was always a preemptive strike because I knew, once they tried it the first time, they were going to keep trying to break up with me until it stuck.  And I could always sense when that final time was right around the corner.  I’ve done it by moving out of state at least a time or two.

I’ve realized that with my behavior, and the frequency of divorce, marriage is no guarantee that I will not die alone.  I want someone to love me forever, and I won’t have that if I keep acting like a fucking sociopath of a narcissist all the time.  I had a boyfriend a while back who pointed out every single narcissistic thing I did.  Freaking everything.  My current one has to stop me and say “it’s not always about you, you know,” and frankly, it shocks me every time.  “It’s not??” That’s the thing people don’t want to understand: sometimes, it’s innocent.  I really don’t know how things are or how I sound.  Of course, when it’s pointed out to me, I am willing to try to make it somehow not about me (old habits die hard, y’all), and I do try to compromise.  I’m not trying to be horrible all the time.  I just am that way.  I try so hard to be nice when I go out in public.  But it’s exhausting.  It’s just not who I am.

But as Wreck-It Ralph says: “I’m bad, and that’s good. I will never be good, and that’s not bad. There’s no one I’d rather be, than me.” I can use my badness for good.  I’m the friend you can go see gory movies with and hide your eyes, and you can trust me to describe anything plot-specific you may be missing, and of course the proper moment to open your eyes again.  If someone’s picking on you, and you’re in my chosen few, I’ll scare them for you.  When we walk down the street alone, in the dark, don’t worry, I’ve got a knife and I’m looking for rocks or pieces of metal to grab, just in case.  Is someone spurting blood? Let me put a bandage on it, at worst I’ll just get horny.  And I’m sure there are other applications.  Just because I have no means to really care doesn’t mean I’m outwardly malicious.  I am friendly when I like the people I’m with.  But yes, you still have to pass a difficult test.

I have one female best friend.  She lives in another state.  I have a few casual girlfriends (not that kind of girlfriend, perverts), but I only ever make plans with one of them, once every several months.  The others I see when I run into them or am looking to sell some stuff I don’t want.  All of my friends that I feel I have some kind of connection to (except the one BFF) are ones I’ve slept with.  Whether it was once, a few times, or a relationship long enough where you don’t count, those are the people I want to be around.  They’re the ones I feel comfortable with.  Knowing they still want me is certainly awesome, but… I spent about twelve minutes trying to think of a way to finish that sentence, and I couldn’t.  It’s because I still have a hold over them.  That’s really it.  And it’s so fucking fun.  But that’s about all I know how to do.  Even now, I have a scheme for every man I meet.  I can’t act on any of them, of course, but I still plan them.  It’s what I do.  On a platonic level, and I actually do have some platonic male friends, I get along better with men.  There’s still the potential for sexual mischief, but it doesn’t have to go there.  I still feel more comfortable talking about aggressive and intellectual kinds of things.  But yeah, in the end, it comes down to who I could have sex with.

 

Well, y’all, my fiance will be here soon and I don’t trust no kind of newfangled technology to save my post, so I’ll have to post the next part on of this tomorrow.  Trust me, I’m getting to a point.  Enjoy the long walk with me.