Hi there. This one’s a little different from my usual format but I just got some news and I wanted to get out what I’m feeling. I was speaking with my roommate today about utilities and housekeeping things when he told me that someone we both knew preferred if I only communicated with them through writing because they were uncomfortable with a conversation we had. I was confused, but I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable so I agreed and made a plan to write an email to have a conversation about it.
He then went on to tell me that the person we were talking about also knew that my neighbor was uncomfortable with me as well. I didn’t think much of it at the time and I just got a $3,000 medical bill for when I thought I was having a stroke so I made a mental note to add that to the email and took a shower.
While bathing I was thinking about what I was going to say in my email. The way I was raised was to do the right thing, no matter how much it hurt. Because the pain doesn’t last forever, and integrity is more important. But lately it feels as though I’m shoveling sand against the tide.
The more I thought about the above difficult relationships I’m in the midst of, the more I’m coming to the conclusion that they really don’t matter. Not in a way where I have disdain or ill will toward them, but in a way where I don’t have to be the adult in the room, modeling how I think everybody should handle their relationships. Let me explain how I got here then I’ll tie it together.
I was raised Catholic on my father’s side. We were very moral, upright citizens in every way. My mother’s side more resembled a trashy reality TV show. I spent the first 32 years of my life living like my mother’s side of the family. Petty and back biting with a sense of indignant self-righteousness was my MO. But I had also experienced a fair amount of trauma. I don’t want to make this a contest, because it’s not. I’m only going to list a few things that I went through before I was 24 to give you an idea of what I was dealing with and how it’s shaped my perspective.
I was regularly abused by my maternal grandparents. My grandmother actually slammed my hand in a car door and walked away from me while I was screaming when I was five. I watched my aunt die from skin cancer when I was eight for about six months. She was having seizures, couldn’t feed herself, weighed next to nothing… It was terrible. While my aunt was dying I was regularly abused by another family member who would sneak into my room in the middle of the night, pour water on me, tell me I wet the bed and then give me the most terrifying lessons on what it means to be a man. It wasn’t like that every night, but then again I don’t remember much. When I got the courage to tell my mother, she looked at me, turned around and walked away. She never spoke to me about that again. I was eight.
My parents divorced after my aunts death and I lived with my mother and my ex-stepfather. One evening I had done something that made them angry, I can’t remember what, and I was probably 15 or 16 at the time. I remember having my back to the side door and my mother and step-father screaming at me with no restraint. I was terrified. I had already started to drink at that point and I had no one I could trust save for my friends who would drink at the beach with me, so I was completely on my own with no one to turn to and being verbally attacked by my parents. So I picked up the closest thing to defend myself with which was a steak knife. I saw the power dynamic switch almost immediately. Through the fear, I looked at the knife in my hand, through it on the ground and ran out the side door crying. Not only terrified of what would happen to me, but also that I scared my parents and the thought that I could harm them. My stepfather then tackled me on the gravel, pushing my face into the crushed stone. It took every ounce of courage I had to say to him, “you like tackling little boys?” to regain some sense of control over the insane situation I was in. He responded with, “yeah, I have a big rubbery one right now.” in a low guttural tone. I don’t remember what happened after that.
I stopped going to school in tenth grade since I had absolutely no support from anyone. My dad stopped taking me on the weekends when I was 13 and there was nobody in my house. I was alone almost constantly and in a state of fear. I don’t even remember what classes were like let alone how to do any of the work I was given. I mostly hung around just outside of school or at the local Dunks because I was afraid to be around people. When I was I was drinking to quell the terror of feeling connection for fear of being abused. I almost drank myself to death on more than one occasion at parties in highschool.
By the time I was 19 I was kicked out of my house and homeless two, or three times before I found a steady living situation. And those first apartments were terrible. Mold, cockroaches, garbage drifts… One was going to be torn down at the end of the summer so we did a lot of the demo ourselves. My job situation was pretty unstable too. One boss had cancer and was drinking and doing cocaine instead of trying to recover. How I never became addicted to drugs I will never know. Thank God for small favors. It took me until I was 24 to feel even remotely stable. But it only got worse from there which I won’t go into.
That was only a small amount of what I feel comfortable sharing. And again, this isn’t a contest. But while I was showering, thinking about what I was going to say in my email, I started to feel bad for them. This isn’t unusual, but my moral compass usually tells me to push through and focus on making what is, right. But this time I let it sink in. I then decided to try to look at things from their perspective.
I sat down in the chair I’m sitting in now and reread the texts from one. They seemed responsive to my texts. They were polite and prompt. But I was also the one who was reaching out to them. I had questions, I asked. I had an idea to help them out, I suggested it. I asked if they needed help when I saw a need arise. They never reached out without me doing so first.
The other person I’m on the outs with posts pretty regularly on socials. So I watched some of their content and really tried to put myself in their shoes. The post I watched was about them struggling with their self-worth. I felt empathy for them, but the longer I watched the more I just felt I couldn’t relate. Again this is not a contest, there pain is real and I recognize that. I also recognize the same pattern of me trying to help and reach out to them and them not responding. Once I left a pound of coffee on their backdoor as a peace offering. But the text I received from them said, “please leave all packages by the front door”, as though I were a delivery service.
I recognize that they are hurting, and that I am the cause of some of that hurt. What really hurts though is that I’m hurting too. I’m hurting and trying to make them feel more comfortable in their pain while they are hurting and avoiding me. I’m hurt, I’m reaching, they’re hurt, their running away.
So I’m giving up. I’m going to stop trying to help those who don’t want it. That’s not to say that I’m writing them off. If they come to me and want to talk about it, I’m all ears. Hell, I’ll even make them dinner and we can high-five all night. But life’s to short to waste time worrying about how comfortable somebody is, or is not around me. I’m not going to be mean or hostile, those days are over. And I really do wish them the best. But I’m choosing to surround myself with friends who will listen and compromise, and tell me when I’m being an ass, but not only in writing (;
That’s it. Thanks for listening to my rant. I won’t keep you updated on any details because I’ve already let them go : ) Peace & thanks for reading :)🏔️🌙
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