A nice little cylinder.
It's actually rather humorous.
What others describe as my "insight", I view as a pile of verbose masturbation. I consider this to be merely descriptive rather than self-deprecating. The content is there, but is far too densely packed with sliding panels and trapdoors. It is a habit too deeply ingrained for me to effortlessly abandon; psychological lobomization is a surprisingly arduous task, so I remain contentedly scattered, pretentious, and forthright with my identity.
Regardless, there is something about baring my neck to the lance that doesn't strike me as intimidating; I'm alright with my intuitive conversational style revealing chinks in my armor. Additionally, I am alright with slippery reveals of my character, provided I'm not calculating them deliberately. "Headgame" territory is far too exhausting.
The dilemma that frequently emerges in many interactions, however, is when people decide to interact with the roles you are playing in their mind -- them formulating a token character from your identity for their own edification. The instructor, the caretaker, the lover, the opponent. Theoretical or not, it always elicits a twinge of irritation within me. You will rarely strike a legitimate cord in these people, because there is a pathological obsession with them mincing your words to shreds, only finding profundity in your soliloquies because it satiates their histrionic need for validation; a need for you to follow their script.
I will not bite.
Growing up, I witnessed a myriad of co-dependants who would become downright violent or exclamatory if I did not conform to the specific parameters they had carved out for me. Correspondences with these types was more comparable to punching a time clock. I was to constantly inundate every corner of their existance; to entertain them with my lurid, filthy secrets within our bubble of Fetishized Trust. And they only wanted to listen to the negatives; the unsavory traumas that they could vivisect delicately, use it to attach themselves to your supposed turmoil. They imploringly whimpered for constant injections of bathos and pathos, and my avoidance and indifference towards them only intensified their fevered fixation. An unreturned phone call on my end, regardless of how busy and overworked I was ... elicited their responses of my "negative vibes". My callousness. You have not been my educator this week; you have not picked up the pieces of my failings. Here, Jen, allow me to show you images of my wounded wrists; then you will grasp the devestation you have caused me.
If you haven't surmised this already, I am still bitter. The realization of this being commonplace in my life, in other's lives, repulsed me to such a tremendous degree that it bludgeoned any soupçon of empathy I was supposed to harbor in this regard; wore it down into a filed, serrated point.
I will ignore you, I promise. I bleed only pearls of apathy for you. Shoo shoo, said the maiden. But they rather prefer the cruelty; it's during conflict with you, their watchperson, that they're brought to life.
The frequency of these types was so severely prominent that it has caused perpetual skepticism of any miniscule traces of this behavior I identify in others. I mostly keep these observations to myself, and oftentimes I am wrong. But due to the cyclical nature of this problem, I am presently unsure if some people, being the common denominators, carry a triggering agent; an accessibility for hungry types. A level of responsibility. When I discard of them, after all, they return in a seperate incarnation.
Bemusement awaits, regardless.
What others describe as my "insight", I view as a pile of verbose masturbation. I consider this to be merely descriptive rather than self-deprecating. The content is there, but is far too densely packed with sliding panels and trapdoors. It is a habit too deeply ingrained for me to effortlessly abandon; psychological lobomization is a surprisingly arduous task, so I remain contentedly scattered, pretentious, and forthright with my identity.
Regardless, there is something about baring my neck to the lance that doesn't strike me as intimidating; I'm alright with my intuitive conversational style revealing chinks in my armor. Additionally, I am alright with slippery reveals of my character, provided I'm not calculating them deliberately. "Headgame" territory is far too exhausting.
The dilemma that frequently emerges in many interactions, however, is when people decide to interact with the roles you are playing in their mind -- them formulating a token character from your identity for their own edification. The instructor, the caretaker, the lover, the opponent. Theoretical or not, it always elicits a twinge of irritation within me. You will rarely strike a legitimate cord in these people, because there is a pathological obsession with them mincing your words to shreds, only finding profundity in your soliloquies because it satiates their histrionic need for validation; a need for you to follow their script.
I will not bite.
Growing up, I witnessed a myriad of co-dependants who would become downright violent or exclamatory if I did not conform to the specific parameters they had carved out for me. Correspondences with these types was more comparable to punching a time clock. I was to constantly inundate every corner of their existance; to entertain them with my lurid, filthy secrets within our bubble of Fetishized Trust. And they only wanted to listen to the negatives; the unsavory traumas that they could vivisect delicately, use it to attach themselves to your supposed turmoil. They imploringly whimpered for constant injections of bathos and pathos, and my avoidance and indifference towards them only intensified their fevered fixation. An unreturned phone call on my end, regardless of how busy and overworked I was ... elicited their responses of my "negative vibes". My callousness. You have not been my educator this week; you have not picked up the pieces of my failings. Here, Jen, allow me to show you images of my wounded wrists; then you will grasp the devestation you have caused me.
If you haven't surmised this already, I am still bitter. The realization of this being commonplace in my life, in other's lives, repulsed me to such a tremendous degree that it bludgeoned any soupçon of empathy I was supposed to harbor in this regard; wore it down into a filed, serrated point.
I will ignore you, I promise. I bleed only pearls of apathy for you. Shoo shoo, said the maiden. But they rather prefer the cruelty; it's during conflict with you, their watchperson, that they're brought to life.
The frequency of these types was so severely prominent that it has caused perpetual skepticism of any miniscule traces of this behavior I identify in others. I mostly keep these observations to myself, and oftentimes I am wrong. But due to the cyclical nature of this problem, I am presently unsure if some people, being the common denominators, carry a triggering agent; an accessibility for hungry types. A level of responsibility. When I discard of them, after all, they return in a seperate incarnation.
Bemusement awaits, regardless.