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(This entry is a response to a comment made to an earlier entry by Cheryl Lynn-Marie Sanchez. Since my journal entries now face the risk of being read, I thought it only fair to provide a disclaimer. There is after all, a reason we keep our skeletons in the closet. While I realize she only expressed slight curiosity as to what has made me so cynical. I don't really have a shorter version of the events, other than perhaps "Life is hard, We are insignificant, and nothing is ever fair." The first two paragraphs are relatively harmless, the rest falls into the catagory of way too much information sliding into the realm of depressing, continue as you see fit.)
We all know our failings, after all we have to spend each waking hour with them, most people allow the idea that they have attributes which society considers negative to bring them down, to affect their self-esteem and sense of worth. So they gloss them over, lie to themselves, minimize them. What they fail to realize is that, our failings are what make us human, what connect and bond us with other humans. Think about it, what are your friends, but people you feel safe expressing your failings, mistakes, and foibles too. How did they become your friends? Through a process of exploration whereby you shared intimate details of your life and if they don't reject you, but instead choose to share their own intimate details, you become friends.
My most recent (although not all the recent now) serious relationship lasted over 3.5 years, (my longest relationship by about 3 years, my average relationship is about 6 weeks and I have had a couple in the 3 - 6 month range). The major disconnect we had was simply that she could not accept my failings, and I was not willing to put the effort into being "perfect" (otherwise known as "who she wanted me to be"). She believed that since I had failings, I was broken, and required repair. However, she was completely unable to face her own failings. Of course, I rather relish the overall picture of who I am. I have done rather well for myself all things considered, and am mostly happy with who I am, so I did not appreciate these attempt to force-feed me medicine. And lastly, I loved her for her faults, for her foibles, in addition to her "positive" attributes, while I expected her to continue personal growth, I would not attempt to force the direction, where as she only loved me as long as I was her idea of the perfect man. Ce La Vie.
As for why I am so cynical, I would say its comes from a combination of events in my life, and my own strange brand of perspective and insight. Shall we start from the beginning of the chain of events, which led me to this strange and wondrous point, which I now inhabit?
Author's note: The following focuses on specific events in my life, which I would say attributed to my jaded and cynical disposition, it is not meant as a life story, or a complete chronicle of even those events or my general life. Consider this merely a fragmented recollection of many stories, cobbled poorly into a pathetic tale.
When I was 5 years old, a teacher asked each of us what our fathers did for a living (notice: "our fathers not our parents." dont you love parochial school). When it was my turn, I said bluntly, "I don't have a father" instead of inquiring what I meant, she sent me to the school office. My mother was called, and she explained to the school that my parents had been divorced since I was a year old, and I had never met or known my father. My life until that moment had been complete; my family was my brother, my sister and my mother. It was all I had known, and it seemed completely normal. In the space of a moment my world was shattered, and a hole the size of Texas was torn into my heart. Normality once removed never returns. A father I had never known, never realized I had needed, had failed me.
The next significant event in my life, occurred in 5th grade, a young lady in the 6th grade stalked me. This was a great source of amusement for my family and those around me. All the events which transpired, the phone calls my parents made me take, the radio proclamations of love, her knocking on my window at ungodly times of night, were in the scope of things quite harmless as a stalking. However being around 10 years old and not exactly skilled in handling such things, it was most terrifying. The worse part was of course that I was alone, and that any attempt I made to broach the subject and get assistance received a response of general amusement.
When I was 11 my mother became pregnant with my younger sister, at which point I was pretty much given complete autonomy. My mother, who was the primary disciplinarian, was to exhausted to deal with me, cook meals, etc.. I started smoking; drinking and doing drugs, as the years increased so did my habits. I became a skater, and began getting in trouble with the law. I became sexually active, and shortly thereafter sexually frustrated. (Back then there were not nearly as many 13 year old girls who put out as there are today, not that I have any personal experience the 13 year old girls of today, just the general impression I have gotten).
At the age of 14 life seemed to perfect, I could go where I wanted, when I wanted, I had plenty of money (being a runner for a drug dealer significantly helped my bottom line) the women I was involved with were older and more generous with their affections. Then in a short time, living fast caught up with me, a friend of mine grabbed the bumper of a stopped car, and as we frequently did hitched a free ride on our skateboards, this time would be his last. The local police responded by cracking down on skaters and enforcing skateboarding ordinances. One day, myself and a large group of others, most of whom I called friends, were arrested.
Apparently someone who shall remain nameless, with the aid of a friend whose father was a bit of a survivalist nut, produced a small quantity of what I now know as Thermite, and had done significant damage to a police car.
During the process of this arrest and interrogation, in a moment of grievously bad judgement decided to demand my civil rights, I was grabbed at the throat and lifted from the ground. In a subsequently worse moment of bad judgement, I placed my foot with significant force in the groin of the offending officer, and completed the error, by creating contact between my elbow and his nose, his nose lost and was broken.
In case you have not yet learned this lesson, let me enlighten you, while assaulting a police officer is never a good idea, doing so in a police station is generally considered suicidal. I was lucky to end the day in the hospital with three severely broken ribs, and a mangled body of which a search for an un-bruised area would have been long and probably futile. During the next six weeks, while I was recovering in the hospital, my parent's lawyers negotiated the dropping of charges against me, in return for not filing a civil suit.
I went to boarding school, where I quickly made strong friendships. I think boarding school probably saved my life, of course all things have their cost. During my second year a close friend failed to show up for dinner, he had been depressed recently so I decided to go talk to him. I found him shortly thereafter sitting in a pool of his own blood, he had lacerated each of his arms four times in a cross-hatched motion, and had been drawing stick figures on the wall in his blood. I called an ambulance, and began a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. The ambulance arrived, but my friend had already departed. That moment, hearing the useless sirens approaching, holding the empty husk of my friend, I cursed god, and god did not answer. The God of my forefathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob stood by me with a passive smile, thy kingdom come; his will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
Over the course of the next two years, I lost my fear of death, and my love of life. The drug and alcohol consumption became ridiculous. My friends dropped like flies, either from overdoses, stupidity, or related violence. I spent a total of 8 months in the hospital.
What saved me?
What steered me from this path of certain destruction?
A young woman by the name of Charlotte. My first love, the only person whom I loved, who didn't try to fix me. My parents believed I was broken, they had been sending me to one shrink after another for years, hoping to find some mortar which could paste over the cracks in my soul.
Charlotte was one of the only people I have ever met who honestly cared about and was genuinely kind to everyone. She was beautiful, intelligent, and her presence rekindled my faith in humanity, in life and even possible in god. I cleaned up my act, started attending classes, if only to see more of her.
What perchance happened then?
Could this be true, this fairytale ending?
For a short while it was...
Then she was taken from this world, call it a freak boating accident, call it the hand of god, cruel fate....
Whatever you will, for me it was four eternal hours of hell, watching others perform CPR on her mostly lifeless body, before she slipped silently into the abyss. I didn't waste my breath, cursing god that night, for I already knew his answer.
I sat pondering suicide, but I was a coward, before I would have had no difficulty, in fact that was probably what I was doing in my own slow methodical way. Unfortunately for my pathetic shipwreck of a heart, it remembered the lessons she had taught me, remembered the pure joy of life she had.
I stumbled on, blind, broken and without cause.
I will stop here, while there is much more since that time which has shaped my perception, and refocused my outlook on life. That singular moment sitting on a dock, looking down at her body, I cast out everything I had ever been told about life, and settled upon the cold hard truth.
Life is hard.
We are insignificant.
Nothing is ever fair.
We all know our failings, after all we have to spend each waking hour with them, most people allow the idea that they have attributes which society considers negative to bring them down, to affect their self-esteem and sense of worth. So they gloss them over, lie to themselves, minimize them. What they fail to realize is that, our failings are what make us human, what connect and bond us with other humans. Think about it, what are your friends, but people you feel safe expressing your failings, mistakes, and foibles too. How did they become your friends? Through a process of exploration whereby you shared intimate details of your life and if they don't reject you, but instead choose to share their own intimate details, you become friends.
My most recent (although not all the recent now) serious relationship lasted over 3.5 years, (my longest relationship by about 3 years, my average relationship is about 6 weeks and I have had a couple in the 3 - 6 month range). The major disconnect we had was simply that she could not accept my failings, and I was not willing to put the effort into being "perfect" (otherwise known as "who she wanted me to be"). She believed that since I had failings, I was broken, and required repair. However, she was completely unable to face her own failings. Of course, I rather relish the overall picture of who I am. I have done rather well for myself all things considered, and am mostly happy with who I am, so I did not appreciate these attempt to force-feed me medicine. And lastly, I loved her for her faults, for her foibles, in addition to her "positive" attributes, while I expected her to continue personal growth, I would not attempt to force the direction, where as she only loved me as long as I was her idea of the perfect man. Ce La Vie.
As for why I am so cynical, I would say its comes from a combination of events in my life, and my own strange brand of perspective and insight. Shall we start from the beginning of the chain of events, which led me to this strange and wondrous point, which I now inhabit?
Author's note: The following focuses on specific events in my life, which I would say attributed to my jaded and cynical disposition, it is not meant as a life story, or a complete chronicle of even those events or my general life. Consider this merely a fragmented recollection of many stories, cobbled poorly into a pathetic tale.
When I was 5 years old, a teacher asked each of us what our fathers did for a living (notice: "our fathers not our parents." dont you love parochial school). When it was my turn, I said bluntly, "I don't have a father" instead of inquiring what I meant, she sent me to the school office. My mother was called, and she explained to the school that my parents had been divorced since I was a year old, and I had never met or known my father. My life until that moment had been complete; my family was my brother, my sister and my mother. It was all I had known, and it seemed completely normal. In the space of a moment my world was shattered, and a hole the size of Texas was torn into my heart. Normality once removed never returns. A father I had never known, never realized I had needed, had failed me.
The next significant event in my life, occurred in 5th grade, a young lady in the 6th grade stalked me. This was a great source of amusement for my family and those around me. All the events which transpired, the phone calls my parents made me take, the radio proclamations of love, her knocking on my window at ungodly times of night, were in the scope of things quite harmless as a stalking. However being around 10 years old and not exactly skilled in handling such things, it was most terrifying. The worse part was of course that I was alone, and that any attempt I made to broach the subject and get assistance received a response of general amusement.
When I was 11 my mother became pregnant with my younger sister, at which point I was pretty much given complete autonomy. My mother, who was the primary disciplinarian, was to exhausted to deal with me, cook meals, etc.. I started smoking; drinking and doing drugs, as the years increased so did my habits. I became a skater, and began getting in trouble with the law. I became sexually active, and shortly thereafter sexually frustrated. (Back then there were not nearly as many 13 year old girls who put out as there are today, not that I have any personal experience the 13 year old girls of today, just the general impression I have gotten).
At the age of 14 life seemed to perfect, I could go where I wanted, when I wanted, I had plenty of money (being a runner for a drug dealer significantly helped my bottom line) the women I was involved with were older and more generous with their affections. Then in a short time, living fast caught up with me, a friend of mine grabbed the bumper of a stopped car, and as we frequently did hitched a free ride on our skateboards, this time would be his last. The local police responded by cracking down on skaters and enforcing skateboarding ordinances. One day, myself and a large group of others, most of whom I called friends, were arrested.
Apparently someone who shall remain nameless, with the aid of a friend whose father was a bit of a survivalist nut, produced a small quantity of what I now know as Thermite, and had done significant damage to a police car.
During the process of this arrest and interrogation, in a moment of grievously bad judgement decided to demand my civil rights, I was grabbed at the throat and lifted from the ground. In a subsequently worse moment of bad judgement, I placed my foot with significant force in the groin of the offending officer, and completed the error, by creating contact between my elbow and his nose, his nose lost and was broken.
In case you have not yet learned this lesson, let me enlighten you, while assaulting a police officer is never a good idea, doing so in a police station is generally considered suicidal. I was lucky to end the day in the hospital with three severely broken ribs, and a mangled body of which a search for an un-bruised area would have been long and probably futile. During the next six weeks, while I was recovering in the hospital, my parent's lawyers negotiated the dropping of charges against me, in return for not filing a civil suit.
I went to boarding school, where I quickly made strong friendships. I think boarding school probably saved my life, of course all things have their cost. During my second year a close friend failed to show up for dinner, he had been depressed recently so I decided to go talk to him. I found him shortly thereafter sitting in a pool of his own blood, he had lacerated each of his arms four times in a cross-hatched motion, and had been drawing stick figures on the wall in his blood. I called an ambulance, and began a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. The ambulance arrived, but my friend had already departed. That moment, hearing the useless sirens approaching, holding the empty husk of my friend, I cursed god, and god did not answer. The God of my forefathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob stood by me with a passive smile, thy kingdom come; his will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
Over the course of the next two years, I lost my fear of death, and my love of life. The drug and alcohol consumption became ridiculous. My friends dropped like flies, either from overdoses, stupidity, or related violence. I spent a total of 8 months in the hospital.
What saved me?
What steered me from this path of certain destruction?
A young woman by the name of Charlotte. My first love, the only person whom I loved, who didn't try to fix me. My parents believed I was broken, they had been sending me to one shrink after another for years, hoping to find some mortar which could paste over the cracks in my soul.
Charlotte was one of the only people I have ever met who honestly cared about and was genuinely kind to everyone. She was beautiful, intelligent, and her presence rekindled my faith in humanity, in life and even possible in god. I cleaned up my act, started attending classes, if only to see more of her.
What perchance happened then?
Could this be true, this fairytale ending?
For a short while it was...
Then she was taken from this world, call it a freak boating accident, call it the hand of god, cruel fate....
Whatever you will, for me it was four eternal hours of hell, watching others perform CPR on her mostly lifeless body, before she slipped silently into the abyss. I didn't waste my breath, cursing god that night, for I already knew his answer.
I sat pondering suicide, but I was a coward, before I would have had no difficulty, in fact that was probably what I was doing in my own slow methodical way. Unfortunately for my pathetic shipwreck of a heart, it remembered the lessons she had taught me, remembered the pure joy of life she had.
I stumbled on, blind, broken and without cause.
I will stop here, while there is much more since that time which has shaped my perception, and refocused my outlook on life. That singular moment sitting on a dock, looking down at her body, I cast out everything I had ever been told about life, and settled upon the cold hard truth.
Life is hard.
We are insignificant.
Nothing is ever fair.
