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I hate everyone, but I love people.
I can't tell anyone this: I hate everyone because everyone just sucks. I hate crowds of people. I hate being smooshed into random bits of strange flesh at concerts or having 1 cm of personal space in every direction while flying. I hate small talk and loud restaurants and people that stop in the middle of the sidewalk and expect everyone to go around them like they're the center of the universe. Step to the side and get out of everyone's way, you rude ass. I just cannot deal with a bunch of adults all at once, especially the particularly aggravating kinds (I'm looking at you sidewalk stoppers). If I'm in a controlled setting, say a party with a relatively calm atmosphere or at church, I can handle it for a couple hours. But once I reach my limit, I must leave immediately. Online is no better for me. I can't post anything without worrying if my opinion isn't the "right" one and who I'm going to offend with it. I can't criticize something without being torn to shreds by a ton of anonymous people. Hell, I can't play multiplayer games without people straight up harassing me. It's like having billions of nasty people floating around me all at once. Billions of people constantly and forever swirling about in their sameness. I do not like it and I do not want to be a part of it. Just leave me alone.
On the other hand, hear ye hear ye: I am a giant lover. I get a huge amount of satisfaction from connecting with people. I find people fascinating and I love them so much. I love hearing people's stories, learning about what they love and what they hate, what makes them tick. I love when people share their dreams with me, the sleepy kind and the real world ones. I love discovering people's weird or obscure interests and hobbies. I want to know all about it. I love learning from people. I love to listen. I love to have one-on-one conversations where we can let our guard down and let our brains dance. I regularly have very stimulating 3, 4 hour long conversations with husband (in fact we spend a majority of our free time sitting around and having discussions these days). I want to disagree with people and try to understand their point of view. I don't really want people to disagree with me, but I'm working on that okay? I think everyone is much cooler and much wiser than I am. I think everyone has something to offer. I love to be around people and feel their feelings. I love to observe. I love sweet old people and goofy kids. I love logical people and I love feely people. Listen, I really just love. I want to cuddle and hug and touch. I love everything. I love love. Just let me hug you.
On Sunday, a friend casually asked me "Spoony, is there anyone you don't love?"
My brain stuttered. I took a noticeably long pause before I answered. I had to process the question, internally answer it, fight the urge to obfuscate the truth, translate my answer into words, and filter the words so they'd fit the mask I was wearing.
"Yes. Only a couple, because they hurt me. But I love everyone else on the whole planet by default."
Boom. The truth. This was the first time I've been able to admit publicly that I've been hurt and that I feel something other than "perfect" because of it. Better yet, it was the first time I said publicly that I didn't love someone. And guess what? It was nothing. Nothing happened. I didn't die, the world didn't end, and my friend didn't suddenly tell me to get out of his car and to never speak to him again. I logically know these things are not likely outcomes, but I can't tell the right side of my brain that. She will not have it. It was a big deal to me. Well, everything is a big deal to me. But this was a *big* big deal. So big, in fact, that when I went to sleep that night my brain was finally able to process something I've been stuck with for I don't know, a decade or two?
I sat along the main road into the subdivision of my childhood with a bunch of kids from the neighborhood. We sat at folding tables facing the road, watching the people in the houses across the street. We watched a man hit a woman in the front yard of their house. We watched cars speed by and crash. We watched drug deals take place on the sidewalk.
I decided to walk towards the Little Store, followed by husband. I didn't look at him. I just know he was following me at a distance. I was annoyed with him because he was so reasonable and good all the time and I was not. He was safe.
I walked towards my house with the intention to steal back the family car. I had the keys in my pocket. When I arrived, there were cars parked everywhere: in the driveway, on the lawn, on the sidewalk, and in the street. None of them belonged to us and I was confused. I opened the door of one of the cars and at that moment someone opened the front door of my house. I walked up to them.
It was a nurse. She was wearing a stereotypical nursing outfit, complete with a little white hat. I peeked inside my house and saw that it was a hospital inside and no longer my home. Inside was sterile and white and full of patients in hospital gowns, sitting around. They all looked hostile towards me.
I told the nurse I was there to see my mom, and she said she would go get her. When the nurse came back she told me that my mom didn't want to speak with me. I told her I didn't care what my mom wants, and that she doesn't get to decide if I see her or not.
I walked past the nurse and into the hospital-house and found my mom sitting at a table. Everything was so bleak and off-putting. My mom had made "friends" and they were all wearing their gowns and watching from their tables. They gave me dirty looks and said things under their breath. My mom had her nose turned up at me and refused to look at me or speak to me.
I exploded with rage. I screamed at her, and used every foul word I had. I told her exactly what a waste of life she is. I told her exactly how she intentionally caused all these problems in the family and in me so precisely that she couldn't deny it. I explained every little way she has failed as a human being and what a disgrace she is. I really let it all out.
She didn't have anything to say, so she left. Then the nurse came around and told me that my mom was willing to speak with me but only under certain conditions. I was brought to a table with a giant piece of frosted glass between my mom and I. On the table was a screen through which we could communicate.
My mom explained, through text on the screen, that in order for her to talk she needed to start with some "word association." She began typing words separated by commas with no real connection between them. Suddenly I felt very compassionate, accepting, and somewhat patient. Of the words she typed I only remember two: Japan and prostitute.
Once she was done with the "word association" she started typing actual sentences. I can't remember her stories exactly but she did talk about the time she went to Japan and how she had a difficult experience there. I felt sympathetic. As she typed I thought that she and I have a lot of the same problems, but I didn't feel bad in any way. I didn't love her. I didn't want to help her. It was purely a sad situation for a person whom I have no relation to. I accepted it.
I have no obligation to this human being whatsoever. She has issues, and that's unfortunate. She also tortured me, and that's also unfortunate. The only loving thing she ever did for me was carry me in her womb for nine months. I don't have to love her, help her, care for her, worry about her, cry for her... I never have. I'm free.
It's just facts.
Listening to: Reflection Eternal - Nujabes (on repeat while I wrote this)
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