Tell me doctor (part (3)

(cont.)


High school was boringly uneventful. I saw myself forced to attend to my senior prom dance, because my mother wouldn’t let me off it. So, to please her, I gave in. By the time I got to college I was more than sure there was more to than just some temporary ‘bad attitude’. It had to be. It wasn’t a phase anymore. I had been like this my whole life, placing aside any plausible traumatic events, which I handled with gold star ease. Of course, not being able to ask anyone and having more important things to handle, it had to take the backseat.

Nowadays, little things have popped up and made me wonder about a term. A word. Little things like my inability to make eye contact with myself. In the mirror. Like anybody else. Of course, the ability itself is there. But the seeing “beyond” the mirror thing, which people talk about, that, that I can’t do. Why? Simply because I see nothing. So, I become frustrated. Not that it means much to me to see something, it doesn’t. My eyes work perfectly, regardless of the abuse I put them through, and are visually pleasant. This vacancy frustrates me because, when I make eye contact with others, I can read them. I can see them far more clearly than by just reading the regular signs (behavior, mannerism, tone of voice, word choices, etc.) And with myself, I see nothing.

There are also the concepts of Empathy, Sympathy and Conscience. Those are fun. For about five minutes.

Not too long ago, I decided to bluntly ask, “What’s the difference between Empathy and Sympathy?” Needless to say, it caught those in the room off guard.

The question came to mind, and out of my mouth, because they were watching some 48 hour TV program which collects money for a foundation. It builds specialized hospitals for disabled children who do not have the resources for whatever problems they carry. Those in the room, they were very— touched. Me, I intellectually sympathized with the whole ordeal but found the program nauseating. And the reactions to it, those, those I couldn’t bear with. They were uncalled for, really. At least from my perspective. I was, I guess, disgusted.

But after identifying and understanding where the repulsion came from, I knew it was because I did not understand what was going on, emotionally. I don’t get that sort of thing. I can’t. In fact, after people tried to, aftershock, explain what the difference between the words was, I was still in need for a more technical meaning. Technically. That’s how I understand things. I looked up the meaning and description of both. 

Dictionaries. Google. They understand me.

To this point, I still think both words to be the same. I sense them as false pity. But you can’t say that to people because they’ll get hurt. Insulted. Guarded. Betrayed. “False.” It triggers a lot for the average folk. I’ve noticed. I have also noticed that I don’t know what being sad truly feels like. Much less depressed. 

People have made me wonder about a lot of things I’ve never experienced. And about those things which I enjoy but others see as abnormal. Like solace. Peers often see the pleasure I take on being alone as “sad”. To me, that’s a repugnant thought. It’s not sad, it’s liberating. It lets me breathe. Relax. Not having to put up with human interactions, it’s a relief. But again, I must create relationships because it’s boring when you’re alone for too long. I don’t need people but I’ve always liked observing human interaction. Even when I partake.

I remember, when I was a kid, hiding out on our house’s rooftop. Under my bed. Anywhere. Anywhere to be out of reach. Sometimes I was found, sometimes I wasn’t. Either way, the ending to these episodes were always the same. Me, coming back to the family as if nothing had happen. Because, well, nothing had happen. Though I could tell my parents were angry. Mad at me for disappearing. I never acknowledged their frustration. I didn’t see why I should care. I still don’t. If they were worried, angry or scared, it was not my problem. As far as I was concerned, I could do as I pleased. I mean, I wasn’t hurting anybody, technically. So it was okay. Was it too much to ask just to be by myself? Nope. Not to me. Even if I was five. These “disappearing acts” were none of their business and so they remained.

Then comes my thoughts on Conscience. Which I thought were the same as everyone else’s. Apparently, and accordingly to a certain book, I was wrong. Making it to the point, what I think of Conscience is just a taught behavior. A mimic. Like table manners while growing up. Our parents, the surrounding responsible adults, teach us to differ between Right and Wrong, in the same way they were taught by their own. That’s how I see conscience. Thing is, that could also be considered as the superego. I guess that’s what I get for deconstructing every little thing. Deconstructionist. I should add that to my resume.

Another subject that leaves me at odds is Mortality. Others’ and my own. I don’t think I see it properly. Even my father’s death didn’t affect me as much as expected to. Me being on the verge of dying (under the knife, in various occasions), didn’t affect me. Family members dying, friends... nothing. At this point, and maybe it’s because of the many years as a patient that have me trained but, none of that affects me as I see with other people. I remember being the only one with dry eyes at my father’s funeral. It was, weird.

It is due to this lack of--whatever it is that makes people so emotionally invested, that my mother says she’s scared of me. She is afraid because of my “apathetic”, “tactless”, “unemotional”, “shameless” and “antisocial” behavior. Her words not mine. Of course, this is something I cannot help. Seeing death as just the end of a cycle. It happens and that’s that. I understand that people miss people. I mean, I miss my father’s company, now and then, but there’s nothing tragic about it. Not even if they were killed, or murdered.

Because of this, people tend to see me as cruel. Mean. Cold. That last might be true. But Cruel? That I only am when interested in being so. For example, something I should feel ashamed about, though I’m not, to enjoy psychological torment. It’s a real thrill. Most of the time, just to be perverse. For pure sadistic fun. I can’t help myself. As said, I should feel ashamed, but I’m not. Then again, I rarely am. And when I become aware that I should be, I flaunt my wrong doings. As you may have noticed.

Anyway, to finally put an end to this novel, my most recent realization. 
One day, not too long ago, while sitting about, thinking, it came to me like a car crashing on the back of my head. “I feel like a ghost.” The words merely mouthed but quite present.

I’ve always been aware of this inertia. This suspended animation. This separate life I’ve carried. But I’ve never been really able to verbalize it accurately. Until now. The best way I can put it, it’s like the entirety of your existence is parallel to those around you. Like watching life take place, observing it happen. Every single thing. But you’re behind a plastic sheet. A transparent, endless and inescapable curtain which allows you to be seen, to be superficially acknowledged by others, “the living”, but you never really partake in their lives. You exist. Sure. But you’re not quite with them. That’s what being what I am feels like. Whatever it is I may be.

Since I was a child I always danced around the thought of disappearing. One glorious day would come and I will take off, without a word to anyone, and disappear. For good. Never to be heard of, or from, again. My childhood fantasy. A dream. Some kids dream of being a princess, of adventures, of growing up and being like mommy and daddy. Me? I dreamed of isolation. Of finally being able to be absolutely free. To be myself without calculating every word, every movement, every thought. To be alone. What a dream.

So, do tell. Should I seek psychiatric help or, is it all manageable enough? Regardless of what the answer might be, I politely thank you for taking the time and reading this unnecessarily long email. Have a good one.