They fuck you up…

I’ll tell you about my Dad. I’ll start by saying he wasn’t perfect; nobody is, of course, but he did help me a lot. Looking back, I can tell that he was, at least a little bit, aware of my depressive tendencies. I distinctly remember him trying to help me to deal with stress.

The problem is, I became too reliant on him as a crutch. I did nothing for myself. I still wasn’t doing anything for my own gratification; I did everything to please him.
He’d push me to do better, and without it, I doubt I’d have made it as far as university. I know my sister never really needed that sort of encouragement. Perhaps she feels left out, less loved because of it. But the point is, she didn’t need the attention. She might have wanted it; she might have felt that she’d missed out by not getting the same as I did, but, she wasn’t unloved, I’m sure of that. She just didn’t need as much care as me. She didn’t need as much guidance.

I don’t suppose it helped that he actively dissuaded me from trying to become a writer. Maybe that’s the reason I’m so reluctant. I know he wouldn’t want that. I can’t seem to escape his expectations, even though he’s been dead for a little over twelve years.

With him gone I had no reason to excel. So I didn’t. And I haven’t. I know he’d be terribly disappointed with me and that makes me feel so much worse.

I’d also say he’s responsible for some of my failings with women, especially early on, before he died. I have to be honest, I hadn’t even kissed a girl before went to university, just two weeks after my Father’s death. Before that, every time I betrayed an interest in the opposite sex or it was suggested that I might fancy a girl, my dad would tease me mercilessly. For someone of my disposition this was more than enough to discourage me from seeking out a girlfriend altogether. This is, of course, one of the reasons why, despite his efforts, I know that my Dad didn’t fully understand me.
I’m still, on occasion, a little shy when it comes to women. If I’m not in one of my more gregarious mood, I sometimes become unable to think of a single thing to say. A girl I liked from my previous work place once said that she thought I tried to hard. She’s right of course; when I put no effort in to it, when I don’t force it, everything comes very easily. Another girl even once said that I was charming. Again, I wasn’t trying then. Of course as soon as I realised that I was in the game, I defaulted to my usual tongue-tied self.

Ultimately, my problem is me. I often go for girls beyond my reach (wanting the things that I can’t have seems to be something of a theme for me). They’re always the ones who are unavailable, either because of some deep ceded psychological problem, or because they’re already attached. Either way, though, they’re unattainable. Of course then, with being no prospect that we would ever be together I have to simply rely on imagination and dream of what might be. Fantasy is, after all, so much more compelling than reality.

I wonder, if I desired that which I could actually have, I’d have be forced to deal with change. I’d be forced to deal with the possibility of happiness. I’m not scared by the prospect of being turned down by a girl, just by the idea that she might accept me.

I can’t really explain to my Mum how my depression makes me feel. Every time I touch upon the subject she’ll say something that makes me wish that I’d never brought it up. When I recently mentioned how badly I felt her response was to berate me. She said, “You’re making me worry about you and that’s going to make e mil. You don’t want me to get ill again do you?” Of course not, but that’s hardly a constructive thing to say is it? She seems to have a unique misunderstanding of me. She subjects me to all the negative things that a depressive should be spared. I’m growing fat on negativity (figuratively and literally), and she’s the one who’s doing most of the feeding.
Without a doubt, every day I spend in her presence makes me worse. I try my best to get by in this house, causing as little argument and conflict as possible. She complains that I don’t empty the rubbish; I do it every night now. Of course today, she filled up the bin during the course of one afternoon, before I’d even used it, and complained, once more, that she has to do everything. Why, she asked, can’t I just empty the bin. After all, I only empty it every evening. Of course, that’s not good enough. My mum has always been like this. Always moaning at me, always criticising me. Always interrupting me when I’m in the middle of something. I can’t concentrate when she’s in the house. When I wake, suddenly in the night, I often think I’ve heard her shriek my name (could I not be called something less screamable. Something with more than one syllable and no high pitched ending). Whatever I do to placate her, she always finds something else to moan about. There really is no reason why I should bother to put in any effort at all. However much I do, she always finds my efforts wanting in some way.

I wonder; is she like the cat that sits on the lap of the person who has a distaste or phobia of felines?

You seek attention from those who deny it from you. Is this the same? Is this her way of getting my attention? She complains so much that I don’t sit with her on evenings when I’m at home, preferring the solitude of my room. Of course when I do keep her company I’m subjected to abuse and criticism. It’s no wonder I stay in my room. She seems not to have grasped this simple concept.

I don’t feel welcome. She keeps threatening to throw me out. I know she doesn’t mean it, but I can’t help but feel insecure.

Ultimately, I know I’m a disappointment to my Dad. Worse, perhaps, I’m a disappointment to myself. I had such a brilliant idea of how my life would be by this age, but it just hasn’t happened. As much as I can attribute the blame to others, I know that I am, in the end, the one who is responsible for this shambolic existence of mine.

I’m going to try to get out more as soon as I can. I haven’t felt like leaving the house recently. When I have endured the outside would I’ve felt extremely uncomfortable. Hopefully I’ll be out tomorrow. Out with friends for drinks. With any luck I’ll be able to keep up a façade of happiness long enough for nobody to realise that I’m hiding my sadness behind a mask. Of course, pretend long enough and it ceases to be an act. It’s much easier to be happy when you’re actually having fun.

I’ll be back with my normal posting soon. Hopefully. By the way, this is often how I've felt when I've stopped writing in the past. Perhaps it will help if I write through it.