~A Bitter Swallow~

 


I was reading a book the other day, and the main character described feeling as though he were just a character written by a bad writer.  Funny, yes... one of those mirror in a mirror in a mirror type things.  However, I completely identified with that feeling.  It was so perfect, that I had to stop and step back for a moment;  look to see if I could see a large face in the sky outside- pencil posed above the paper that is my world.  I could envision myself there, the paper upon his messy desk (for yes- it would be a man writing my story.  I couldn't tell you why that would be.), the hand not holding the pencil shoved roughly into a scraggly mess of tangled hair on his head, his brow knit in frustration as he tried to adequately describe the scene, but not being able to pluck the right words out of his mind. 



Truly, he reminds me of me, in male form, years from now when I am old and grey and still trying to get that one story completely written down, edited, finished, and ready for publishing, and most importantly- out of my head.  I feel terribly for the poor guy.


I digress.

Back to feeling like a character written by a terrible author.  I really do.  A rushed story.  One without much depth.  The plot line is shaky and not well thought out; scenes shabbily described, murky and left completely to the imagination, which could vary from reader to reader, shifting the story drastically in some areas.    My character feels unfinished- lackluster.  Relationships are not very well-written, leaving the reader to feel no real connection to anything about my character.  My description is jumpy- my personality spread all over the place, leaving me wandering and confused.  More so maybe than the reader.   The reader is left with an unpleasant taste in their mouth- no interest.  The book is tossed aside, half-read, and that's only if they were dedicated...


The story was Roadwork by Richard Bachman, by the way.  In no way, shape, or form a terrible writer. Quite the contrary- as far as I am concerned. I wish he could have been the one to write my story. Of course, then it would have probably been a crazy horror story. Maybe lackluster bad writing is okay....

   Some days I feel so utterly removed from the world that I cannot stand it.   Not "removed" as in "not immersed in", but removed as in "not part of".  People and places and situations and relations, et cetera,  all feel so alien to me.  I feel like I'm there, but not really.  Not precisely invisible, just not necessary, either.  An extra; insignificant; just there as  filler while the main actors run the show.  I watch everything through glass, able to see but not interact.  I don't feel like I am truly a part of anything. An unintentional mime.

 It is hard when I say someone is making me feel one way, and it is brushed aside and not even acknowledged. Or worse, when I am made to feel like I am the problem, and their actions towards me are warranted and not something that needs to be apologized for. I am an idiot, so them treating me as such is acceptable, even when called on it.  It is okay when they do things that I have asked for them not to, because they feel it is what I need, or will make me happy. They know these things- what is good for me, where my happiness is, because obviously I do not. 

There are times when I just want to pack my kids up and move far away- somewhere nobody knows me.  I could hide there, in that place.  Keep my head down and to myself and not have to worry about trying to be a part of anything anymore.  If I don't already know anyone, then it won't hurt if I feel forgotten.  It won't bother me to feel like I am intruding or trying to force myself in somewhere that doesn't feel I belong.  I won't feel like people cater to me in order to spare my feelings, while rolling their eyes behind my back, wishing I would go away.  Or thinking that I should be doing or acting a different way, in order to make them feel like I am a whole person.    Without having my every motive or action questioned and scrutinized.  

But does such a place exist?  No, I think not.  I could run away.  I could hide.  But people will always be there, and I am so socially inept that I will feel the same regardless of where I go.  Not to mention I can't just hide myself away from the world.  I can't go and become a hermit somewhere.  I have to be involved in this world so that I can help my children be involved in this world.  Thank the gods for my children.   Seriously.  I wouldn't even have the strength to doggy-paddle, or just float, in this life if it weren't for them.  They are my life raft; the floaties on my arms, helping to keep me adrift, keep my head above water and breathe air into my lungs.  

I know that there are genuine people out there.  People who genuinely like and accept me.  Maybe even people who understand me.  I know much of my feelings stem from old wounds that have sat and festered instead of healing.  Wounds that healed on top, but not breathe, so that the pus and infection sit and eat away of what is around it.  From the top, it looks okay, but underneath is horror.   There are things to help it.  I could cut open the scar and scrape the infection out, let it heal as it should.  But that is painful.  Oh so awfully painful.   I could take antibiotics, and fight it that way. But they are so expensive, and take so long to work, if they ever do.  Finding the right medication could cost so much time and money, and they have some nasty side effects. 

So here I sit, my hands upon the window panes, my fingertips smugging the insides.  I sit peering out at the world.  At all the beautiful people going about their lives.  Their beautiful lives, full of realness.  I long to be a part of that world, to mingle among them.  But I am also terrified of it. Sometimes I beat my fists on the glass, hoping to shatter through it, through the walls and barriers I have created within myself.  But I think part of me holds back the strength of that pounding, that small, fearful part that is horrified of becoming a part of that beautiful alive world.  Afraid that I cannot do it.  That I am too weak, too stupid, too [insert negative adjective here].