My continuing saga of living with angst, bitterness, and resentment. What a cocktail.
It is with an ever so slight tongue-in-cheek that I write this… at least, I hope that where it needs to, the article comes across as self-deprecating humor. I’m not a person who is ready to emotionally fly off the handle at any given moment, nor am I angry enough to actually harm anyone or anything.
But I am angry.
I’ve expressed a lot of my frustrations in this blogosphere. Mostly about my failed relationship. Somewhat about my old band. A little here and there, about common things that either annoy me, or otherwise provide me some serious consternation.
What is sticking in my craw as I write this? I don’t think that just one single item could be justifiably accused of causing me to be angry. It’s more like my general state of mind, that is aggravated by a variety of stimuli.
When I see couples walk by me, holding hands, it throws a little spark onto the fire that is ablaze in me. It shouldn’t. I should be happy that other people are happy, right? Or I should just not care. The problem becomes more acute when the woman is particularly attractive or interesting, and even worse if the guy is a total douchebag. My frustration is exacerbated, by my realizing that I stand no chance with courting a woman, even if there was an eligible, compatible candidate within my sphere of influence.
It is a weird, cyclical, self-perpetuating perplexity that I have found myself in. I recognize that I am a very lonely person who misses having a companion; I get jealous when I see people enjoying what I used to; I know that despite my impulses, casual promiscuity is not for me, and only leads me to a darker, lonelier place; knowing what I know of myself, I have to admit that in my present condition, I am too much “damaged goods” to bring into a relationship.
I should just put these things out of my mind, but sentimentality is one of the hardest things for me to suppress. Almost everything that I do and enjoy carries with it a desire that it be shared with the people I care most about, and in a perfect world, with one’s mate. There are some shows that I cannot even watch, or games that I cannot play, by myself in a vacuum. That must sound so silly, and it must sound like I am still hung up on a certain person. It is true that her imprint is a scar that will never fully heal, but it isn’t really about her anymore. It is about knowing what it is like to share the things that you love in life, with someone that you yourself love, and then only ever being able to see others experience that very thing, through, at best, a pane of glass.
The irony, of course, is that my angst is probably what keeps me at arms length from the very thing I miss most. But I don’t know of any way to be other than what I am.