When I told him the truth, I knew he wouldn’t want me. I don’t know why I hadn’t been able to steel myself for the inevitable rejection that came about 24 hours ago.
All my life, I’ve carefully been able to hide from being rejected outright by just not saying anything to anyone I crushed on. I knew I was too hideous, and that my personality was too drab to overcome the ugliness. In fact, my personality just underscores the ugly. Plus I act like an idiot, walk like an idiot, and dress like an idiot. If it quacks like a duck, then it must be a duck.
When I look back on my life, there were clues that I’d always play the roll of the reject. The man who laughed as I choked when I was 5, then yelled at me when I was able to bring up the candy and spit it out on the ground. My kindergarten teacher who never failed to let me know she despised me. The other teachers talking about me when my first grade teacher fawned over me. “I don’t know what she sees in her. She just stays to herself.” They thought I was too stupid to know. The fact is, I was just bright enough to understand.
I wish my mother had miscarried me, like she did the baby before me. I should never have been born. I will never be a positive to society, no one will ever need me, and most certainly no one will ever want me.
To think I was lulled into believing someone could care about me. It looks like I didn’t remember the lessons I learned in 2012 when I fled from the guys I roomed with. I’ll just fucking never learn.
He has zero interest in me, none. Zilch. I will always be the punchline in people’s jokes.
So I kept mulling over my letter to Anonymous Crush, and it came to me that I would not be satisfied until I told him personally. Now, unless you’re avoidant like me, you might not realize what a step this was. I have never in my life told someone I was in love with him because of the inevitable rejection. But I did even though I knew he wouldn’t be interested, because it was burning me up inside. He could’ve been mean about it, told me I made him projectile vomit, or that I was too dumb to find my way out of a Dollar Store plastic bag, but he didn’t. Instead, he ignored me and won’t talk to me at all. I think he told me why he won’t speak to me in a Tweet today. I guess I deserve it. I should’ve bottled it up, as I’ve always done. Nothing will ever change for someone like me.
Am I sorry I told him? Yes and no, Yes, because I feel more alone now than I did before. No, because I proved to myself I actually could ‘fess up like a normal person, and maybe it will serve him well somehow. I imagine, though, he could do far better, and gets other hussies throwing themselves at him. It is what it is.
Not that it matters even if you were to believe me, but yes, I am in love with you. If I had the chance to be with anyone on the planet, it would be you. Even if you are kind of sexist and a Trumper…I’m sure you have your reasons, especially for the former thing. I’d listen to you, even if it would be a snow day in a hell full of Rush Limbaughs before I could see myself feeling nothing but contempt for Trump and a tiny bit of pity.
I’ve always thought highly of you, but never allowed myself to go there until she left. It hit me like bricks, then. I try to hide it, pretend it’s platonic love, because I know you would reject me. And then when you were so kind to me on Thanksgiving, I knew there was no going back.
I’m assuming there’s a good 60 or more IQ point advantage over my paltry 96 IQ, but I’m fascinated how much brilliance and talent are in one vessel of humanity.
I’m in no way a positive to you: Irksome, dim, childish, a poser at writing, too avoidant, and ugly. But, unlike beautiful people, I have enough capacity within me to love you deeply. I’d be willing to be just your friend if you would let me. I want to be with you in any capacity you would let me.
I’ve noticed the last few nights, my anxiety and depression worsen at night…and don’t forget the paranoia. I think every overheard conversation is about me, that everyone around me dislikes me and are out to get me some way. I haven’t quite hit the delusional train yet, because I’m aware it’s at least partially untrue. All my fears are exacerbated by the knowledge I have no one to turn to now.
I’m afraid every phone call is going to be the death knell, that someone is going to tell me something awful that I won’t be able to bounce back from.
And I desperately want someone to love me, but it’s never going to happen.
If, dear reader, you were following along last year, you’d recall me freaking out seeing firetrucks everywhere. I thought my apartment complex might have gone up in flames, because I was coming out of McDonald’s, and couldn’t guage how close the fire was to my home. No worries, though, as it was just some poor soul dying in about the worst way -Drunk, the man kicked over his kerosene heater and incinerated himself in the woods.
Walking home, smelling the remaining smoke, which had a strong plastic/chemical smell I recall thinking maybe 2020 is not gonna be a good year.
That was last New Year’s Eve. This New Year’s Eve, in front of Dollar General, I watched a half-dead woman dragged out of her car onto the asphalt as an ambulance neared. She was barely breathing, and had a big bandage on her forehead. Somehow, she had fallen before piling her 4 children in the car and deciding to head to Dollar General. People seemed to think she was on something. After working on her a long time, the ambulance pulled away going to the hospital for a MRI.
What the hell? Am I particularly bad luck on New Year’s? Now that I think of it, the year before the year before I saw an ambulance rushing into my apartment complex.
Someone kindly reminded me that it was probably not an omen, that I just lived in a shitty part of town.
This ride, man. She basically told me the other day she didn’t want anything to do with me and was only going to have people around who do something for her. Now she’s back, but I almost lost her again when we thought her car was being towed. She told me if her car ever gets towed from my apartment, that’s it.
And I think the fellow who was smitten with me no longer is. Before he ever actually met me in person. I’m trying to not get too upset. I would often wonder what it would be like to hang out at the beach , go to the movies with him, talk at length, and no longer be a virgin. Alas, it was not meant to be. He was likely my last chance too, but he rode off into the sunset while I’m consigned to the glue factory. Thank God it happened before I had a chance to truly fall for him. I can imagine what kind of basket case I’d be had I actually been in love. Considering what I go through every time I think my only friend has cut me off.
I sometimes think her dead boyfriend intercedes for me. I pray to him, or talk to him, and then she shows up. In life, he had tried to protect me. I am truly grateful that he was that fond of me. I think if I got felled by covid or ran over, he’d actually miss me if he wasn’t already dead.
I think on holidays I’d rather get obliviously drunk alone than be reminded that I’m a useless burden.
You’d think she’d realize after Oscar, that one holiday someone can be there and dead by the same time the next year. Especially these days.
I’m trying to not fall into a deep depression. I slept most of the last 24 hours trying to forget.
I knew I was fucked well before I ever got into her car. “So help me, if you make me wait” was one of her Messenger missives (she had left her turkey in the oven, though). And “you need to find a way to my house next holiday. It’s unfair to me.”
I got into the car feeling like a sack of shit, wishing I could run back into my home. She bitched about work, trying to poke little jabs at my dead mother in between, or at least that’s how it felt. She talked about how the psychiatric nurses around her weren’t real nurses. “Not talking about your mother, of course.”
“My mother only did psychiatric nursing some. Most of her nursing career was hospital and home health, ” I said flatly.
She also put down her co-workers who took frequent smoking breaks. “Smoking is just another addiction. Wear a fucking patch.” I didn’t even try to go there on that subject. Pick my battles, lads.
When we got to her house, she wanted me to do the stuffing from her father’s recipe. My anxiety swelled as I tried to decipher what parts she had already done. “Can you do it or not?” she asked in that you retard sort of voice.
I somehow did it without fucking up too much, even though I was momentarily stumped at how to measure out a lb. and 3/4 of a lb. of butter. For some reason, the cylinders in my brain didn’t register that measuring lbs. could be done with a measuring cup too.
Dinner was uneventful, even pleasant as we talked about the song choices on the 90s Sirius radio station. I began to believe things might go OK.
Later, we started working on the kitchen, she putting food away and I rinsing and washing dishes. Some I loaded in the dishwasher, others I scrubbed by hand. When I had done, I began to walk away. That’s when I heard her cry, “What is this?!”
There was water on the floor. “I must’ve splashed water out while washing,” I said.
“This is why people get mad,” she said. “I worked hard at this meal, trying to make the holidays special, and the least you could do is help clean up. I don’t know what’s wrong with you. I’m never doing this again if you can’t at least help clean up. Now I have to drive you home too. “
I wiped the spilt water up and cried in the bathroom as I had done virtually every holiday there.
Splashing water on linoleum had never seemed like a big deal to me at my apartment. Invariably, I would splash water out and let it dry on its own. The pitfalls of lacking common sense, I guess.
By the time we got back to my home, she had calmed considerably and we were back on goodish terms. She stayed a couple hours and even helpede throw away my neighbors’ broke furniture. “Are you sure they won’t get mad?” I asked. An old computer chair that could barely stand at all and a chair made from an old recliner that the tarp padding blew away and could no longer be sat on.
Do you recall my dead friend, and boyfriend to my only friend? Well, then there’s his mother, a drunk to beat all drunks, unfortunately.
Shortly after his passing, Mama O. got the news her brother back in Mexico was dying. What he died of, I don’t know, but knowing that family, I can imagine.
So Mama O. flew to Michoacan, one of the most crime ridden places in Mexico, was with her uncle, prayed novena…and brought back a 9 year-old girl to the states.
Now, on her best days, Mama O. is a fall down drunk, that had two of her children taken away by DSS, and many years ago back in Mexico, had one of her children die from neglect. This woman shouldn’t be taking care of any living thing, let alone a child.
The O family had slipped out of our lives after the death of my friend’s boyfriend, until the other day, one of Dead Boyfriend’s sisters contacted my friend. Surprise! Mama O was being taken to the Emergency Room for drinking herself into diabetic coma and could you find someone to watch a little girl, who by the way, doesn’t speak a word of English.
My friend pressed me to do it, and at first I said OK, but then thinking of a couple things looming before me and my social anxiety, I said no.
Yes, I know I’m a piece of shit, but I was too scared.
My friend was so angry, talking about how I never do anything for anyone, and that I wouldn’t have done anything for Oscar either.
Occasionally, I speak to him when I’m stressed by something. Sometimes I’ll ask him to intercede for me when she’s threatened to cut me from her life. This time, I asked him “Why?”
They patched Mama O. up and sent her home. Once my friend started talking to me again, she told me that the sister told her things about the little girl. Mama O. has been found passed out on the floor by the child, she keeps asking when she can go to school and mama O. always tells her “next week.”
“Maybe you should talk to the sister,” I said to my friend, “that she should intervene or even report her mom.”
“They’ve stopped talking to me again. Don’t tell me what I should do when you wouldn’t help that girl, ” was her reply.
Dear God. Luckily, I don’t know exact locations, or I’d have to ask my therapist to call on them. Or maybe I wouldn’t. I’m the biggest piece of shit on earth. What if someone called and the child was deported to a far worse situation. Her parents must’ve had a reason to pay to get their child over here. Dear God.