Lachrymator

The years as they pass prove more displeasant. I bind the entirety of my joy to the very last good which befalls me and stand shocked at its disappearance. Little in life is forever given; forgetfulness as to this matter proves painful, surely as emotion and possession are conjugated. I struggle to remember the last moment of unadultered happiness I’ve managed to gain, from my hand or from someone else’s, that wasn’t sapped by the words or the action of its very provenance. Yes, I know even of my occasional creation of my own struggle, as most men do but fail to account. Yet, a deep sense of incompetence grows in me, not perhaps as the impostor syndrome that must be suffered occasionally through life, but instead as a subconscious acknowledgement of the failure that reflects in the very word of those honorable enough to speak to me. Every compliment received seems at best incorrect or sarcastic and every insult or complaint viscerally and uncritically justified. And every compliment received, voided at best by the complaint of its offerer, disturbed at my own doing (or undoing) not long after, rising as bubbles to the surface of the waters and disappearing diluted into the invisible air. I’m afraid that I feel no rest or rectitude for my breathelessness.

All men that meet make sacrifice. The fantasy of the individual kept pristine even as he binds himself to others is an idea conceived by those too ungiving. As we link ourselves to others we see in ourselves changes of thought and in them rising expectations, and we vow to answer each expectation within reason and abidance to our principles, as component unnegotiable of friendship. A life changed in future direction but unchanged in past enterprise, and at the disestablishment of it a sorrow and woe for those we miss. Then, I should abide by that which I’ve entered, must I not? This is the matter and the concern that I feel used against me. I do not feel valued as a friend, not out of someone’s direct expression but the persistent and neverending dissatisfaction with that that I do. Even as they say that I help, they remind me, faster than I can recover from the last struggle, that I do not help, or help wrongly, even as I try. They even go as far as to say that I do help, that the support is perceived even if left unverbalized at the climax of struggle, but that short recognition vacates quickly at time of next struggle, where I am again reminded that my support does not exist, that it fails, that I fail.

And this dissatisfaction is repeated at every turn. If you believe that your friend contains in themselves only the best intentions for you, that they are not out to attack you or make you hurt, then you are left with solely the tormenting and torturous belief that they are correct in their report of your failure, that you are truly incapable, that you are truly a bad friend. They tell you that what they want is easy and within reach, which furthers the inner dark that leeches your mind, because if it is easy and within reach then why do I fail? In that sore circumstance, you believe that you fail because you lack capacity and that you are bad. The wrongness is in you, not out of you. You are a bad friend because it is what you are; even as you reject all that which is evil to try to do good, you inevitably fail because you are bad: at listening, at intervening, at comforting, at assisting, at providing, at talking, at helping. Even the principle of communication itself had its foundations skepticized; perhaps my mouth isn’t moving in the right way. A self-examination for purposeful self-incrimination, but nothing ultimately yielded.

I am therefore resigned to the assumption of that which I am. I am not there when I should be. I do not do when I should do. I do not say the things which they want me to say. I do not comfort them as they need comforting. I do not support them correctly. I do not give them space to talk. I do not make time for them. I do not listen or I listen poorly. I change subjects too quickly. I make them feel rejected. I misunderstand and misunderstand again. I use a wrong word that makes them feel worse. I bring up a subject that I like, which they find stressful right now. I bring it up later, and it is still stressful. I wait to bring it up, and it became too late to sort, and so it’s now my mistake to bear. The questions I ask are too much. The questions I ask are not enough. The questions I ask have too complicated of an answer right now. I am the source and originator of most of that which they suffer, and for that which does not originate from me, I fail to bring the comfort they need to deal with it; wouldn’t they enjoy my removal from their life? Wouldn’t my absence from existence prove relieving to them, because they would at least not deal with the pain of failed expectation and my sheer incompetence at treating their ills?

What else am I supposed to believe, then? The interruptions to this cycle, wherein I am reminded for a time that I am not incompetent and insufficient, are quickly dismissed and a return to a state of pain is promptly reintroduced. If it is true that I am not incompetent and insufficient, then why am I reminded that I am so often? I understand improper words in anger, and incomplete ideas in sadness; the convenient amnesia that precedes every one of their struggle, the dark cloud that makes them forget my feelings and my humanness, appears again, and in no time I made to feel like dirt. I do not reject the principle of mistake and error, and I’ve incorporated a willingness to encounter them in my life, so that I may learn and grow better. I do not reject that I’ve done them, and they hurt, and I’ve apologized and repented however unsatisfactory that was, because forgiveness is not at my will and it is good that it isn’t. Yet, I find it difficult to live with the reality that it is all that I do, all that I say, that hurts and torments, and I’m required to accept it now for nothing else has been given to me that proves otherwise, and any attempt tried lasts only for a moment before overriden by the next.