The Case of the Second Time Around
When I was a young and sensitive boy living on Robinhood Road, nestled deep in the winding roads of Fox Chapel, there weren’t any other boys my age on my street. I spent most of my time trailing after my siblings and their friends - who lived in the neighborhood and were around their ages. The closest thing I had to kids around my own age were a bunch of pompous bullies who lived on a cul-de-sac connected by my backyard and one of theirs. One of the most vivid memories I have of the dynamic at work here came one night when my Dad came in with a flashlight. He told me the kids were playing outside and that I should join them. It was one of the few charitable impulses I remember of my father. So, I went out, it was summer and insects sang a repetitive lullaby in the humid darkness. I found them and they promptly rejected me, told me I couldn’t play with them. I sulked back to my house, sad and distraught. Ever since, I’ve had two social pathologies which I exhibit routinely. The first is that I can’t just go and hang out with someone at their house or room, I need to be invited. If I’m invited, I avoid the potential for rejection. The second is that I am irrationally jealous of other people, my friends especially, of being together without me. I get hypersensitive about it and hurt and tend to lash out in vicious ways. It’s a similar feeling of rejection - nearly the same one I felt that night while I watched those boys playing from my window.
It’s a real problem for me, this sense of my friends being together without me, tacit rejection as perceived by me. I mean, looking closely enough at the events which precipitated my exile from Ravine had to do with my hurt from Rachel and Kelly’s betrayal. They may or may not have been avoiding me, but the truth was that was what I perceived. I knew they were together, with the despicable Rachel, and without me. Logically, I came to the devastating conclusion - the truth of which is unknowable. The aftermath nearly destroyed me and in the cold, lonely months, more than once I had regrets. Fortunately, I lived and I learned. The events of the last few days have shown me that I’ve grown and moved past certain aspects of my pathology, not entirely - but enough.
Thursday nights are “Guys Nights” with the Death Star. Dick, Liz, Cuadros, and a rotating cast of others get together, get drunk, and engage in various entertainments - movies, video games, and bowling being recent examples. All day Thursday, Liz’s away message was that Guys Night was later. Cuadros had his Delta Sigma Guys Night away message up. I sent Liz a text that afternoon inquiring about Guys Night plans. No reply. I tried calling her in the early evening. No answer. I IM’d Dick. Nothing. Either I’d missed two of my closest friends in the ‘Ville on three of the most commonly used mediums - or they weren’t talking to me. What would you think?
I went out to dinner with Jena, realizing that I’ve found her “matrimony” with Chaz a welcome respite from the awkward singles dance I tend to get roped into with others. Women are hard to read and I’m not too good at reading them. Dinner with Jena was fun, the ominous element being that I saw Dick and Liz having dinner across the room. I didn’t approach them, they didn’t approach me. McKinley’s after the dinner rush isn’t too crowded, they probably saw me if I saw them. What the bloody hell am I supposed to think?!?
“Where a younger man would weep, he takes a pill and goes to sleep.”
Following Shawn Colvin’s advice, I took some pills, crawled into bed, left my phone on and my speakers turned up loud should anyone IM me. It was in vain - nobody contacted me. I’ve got to say, it was miserable falling to sleep. Dick and Liz have each told me at one time or another that I shouldn’t be lonely, shouldn’t feel so distanced - but then again, on nights when the guys are out having fun and I’m alone in my bed, how else should I feel?
Friday, I woke up groggy and churlish. I made myself from breakfast, doing my best not to think about how lonely the apartment seemed. I spent an hour studying for my calculus exam, went to class, decided not to go to the Campus Center or do laundry, rather returned to the Tower and crawled back into bed - symptoms of depression dancing in my psyche. I was awoken by a phone call from Dixie in Senegal. She wanted to know about the primary election results and we chatted for a bit. Later I learned that it’s going to be the Death Star against itself in the General next week. Counting on Dixie’s popularity in absentia and the number of people who distain Molly, I think we’ll skirt past it. I needed to hear her voice in a few ways, the same way I needed to be with Jena. Something about the unavailability of these two women makes them appealing to me, sort of like the distance of the Catholic confessional. Dixie was there last winter when my life went to hell…again…and she helped me through it in indescribable ways. I need her now, need her again, to keep me from plunging off the same board.
I talked to Derek, but it didn’t amount to much. He was power-houring with Thetas and I was celebrating by making dinner solo and watching videos in my sweatpants. That’s fair in some universal regard I’m sure, but to me it seems like a damn insult. The evening has been spent trying to distract myself, distance myself from the rejection and hurt I feel at the hands of those I feel for. I invest myself in people and I get hurt and I hate it. I keep thinking I’m over it and I get pain. How the bloody hell does that work?!?
“You know I can’t see through the haze around me and I do anything to just feel better…”
I’ve recognized that Dick, Liz, Delta Sigma et. al. aren’t those bullies I grew up with and they’re probably not consciously rejecting me - but I can’t help but feel that way and imagined or real - it hurts like bloody hell. My one redemption in this situation is that I haven’t gone right to burning bridges and seeking revenge, I’m going to drown myself in work, in sleep, in television, in anything I can to stop feeling this horrible feeling. One way or the other, I’m not going to do anything until something else moves. As much as I hate being in limbo, I have to be sure - this time. An enemy is not an enemy until he takes action. I shouldn’t go too quickly into the combatant role, even if it is in trying to defend myself from social angst. For now, I’m going to try and just feel better.
“…and I can’t find my way, God I need a change. I do anything to just feel better, any little thing to just feel better.”
It’s a real problem for me, this sense of my friends being together without me, tacit rejection as perceived by me. I mean, looking closely enough at the events which precipitated my exile from Ravine had to do with my hurt from Rachel and Kelly’s betrayal. They may or may not have been avoiding me, but the truth was that was what I perceived. I knew they were together, with the despicable Rachel, and without me. Logically, I came to the devastating conclusion - the truth of which is unknowable. The aftermath nearly destroyed me and in the cold, lonely months, more than once I had regrets. Fortunately, I lived and I learned. The events of the last few days have shown me that I’ve grown and moved past certain aspects of my pathology, not entirely - but enough.
Thursday nights are “Guys Nights” with the Death Star. Dick, Liz, Cuadros, and a rotating cast of others get together, get drunk, and engage in various entertainments - movies, video games, and bowling being recent examples. All day Thursday, Liz’s away message was that Guys Night was later. Cuadros had his Delta Sigma Guys Night away message up. I sent Liz a text that afternoon inquiring about Guys Night plans. No reply. I tried calling her in the early evening. No answer. I IM’d Dick. Nothing. Either I’d missed two of my closest friends in the ‘Ville on three of the most commonly used mediums - or they weren’t talking to me. What would you think?
I went out to dinner with Jena, realizing that I’ve found her “matrimony” with Chaz a welcome respite from the awkward singles dance I tend to get roped into with others. Women are hard to read and I’m not too good at reading them. Dinner with Jena was fun, the ominous element being that I saw Dick and Liz having dinner across the room. I didn’t approach them, they didn’t approach me. McKinley’s after the dinner rush isn’t too crowded, they probably saw me if I saw them. What the bloody hell am I supposed to think?!?
“Where a younger man would weep, he takes a pill and goes to sleep.”
Following Shawn Colvin’s advice, I took some pills, crawled into bed, left my phone on and my speakers turned up loud should anyone IM me. It was in vain - nobody contacted me. I’ve got to say, it was miserable falling to sleep. Dick and Liz have each told me at one time or another that I shouldn’t be lonely, shouldn’t feel so distanced - but then again, on nights when the guys are out having fun and I’m alone in my bed, how else should I feel?
Friday, I woke up groggy and churlish. I made myself from breakfast, doing my best not to think about how lonely the apartment seemed. I spent an hour studying for my calculus exam, went to class, decided not to go to the Campus Center or do laundry, rather returned to the Tower and crawled back into bed - symptoms of depression dancing in my psyche. I was awoken by a phone call from Dixie in Senegal. She wanted to know about the primary election results and we chatted for a bit. Later I learned that it’s going to be the Death Star against itself in the General next week. Counting on Dixie’s popularity in absentia and the number of people who distain Molly, I think we’ll skirt past it. I needed to hear her voice in a few ways, the same way I needed to be with Jena. Something about the unavailability of these two women makes them appealing to me, sort of like the distance of the Catholic confessional. Dixie was there last winter when my life went to hell…again…and she helped me through it in indescribable ways. I need her now, need her again, to keep me from plunging off the same board.
I talked to Derek, but it didn’t amount to much. He was power-houring with Thetas and I was celebrating by making dinner solo and watching videos in my sweatpants. That’s fair in some universal regard I’m sure, but to me it seems like a damn insult. The evening has been spent trying to distract myself, distance myself from the rejection and hurt I feel at the hands of those I feel for. I invest myself in people and I get hurt and I hate it. I keep thinking I’m over it and I get pain. How the bloody hell does that work?!?
“You know I can’t see through the haze around me and I do anything to just feel better…”
I’ve recognized that Dick, Liz, Delta Sigma et. al. aren’t those bullies I grew up with and they’re probably not consciously rejecting me - but I can’t help but feel that way and imagined or real - it hurts like bloody hell. My one redemption in this situation is that I haven’t gone right to burning bridges and seeking revenge, I’m going to drown myself in work, in sleep, in television, in anything I can to stop feeling this horrible feeling. One way or the other, I’m not going to do anything until something else moves. As much as I hate being in limbo, I have to be sure - this time. An enemy is not an enemy until he takes action. I shouldn’t go too quickly into the combatant role, even if it is in trying to defend myself from social angst. For now, I’m going to try and just feel better.
“…and I can’t find my way, God I need a change. I do anything to just feel better, any little thing to just feel better.”