The well

J’ai l’impression d’une tornade emportant toute notre humanité, nos humilités, nos vulnérabilités, nos pudeurs altruistes, le sens même de ce qu’est être une personne… Un gros tas de poussières virevoltant parmi les ruines de nos constructions, soufflant le fin dessein d’un idéal humain, détruisant ces routes délicates qui nous amenaient vers l’autre.

Dans l’après, les vestiges d’une structure qui n’aura tenu que faiblement, là où la vanité est devenue monnaie d’échange dans le commerce des places disponibles. Nous construirons un nouveau Stonehenge.

This one had this theory that I was insane. That I was defective. That something in my head did not work properly. And because of that I was driving him insane. My reaction whenever he brought it up ranged from indifference to anger, sometimes dancing on uncertainty when I was feeling more vulnerable. Indifference when I though he was just trying to get to me, anger when he was clearly trying to hurt me. Because serioulsy, you want to hurt me, go for my brain, it’s a sure shot.

This other one felt intimidated to the point of exploding rages and long rants about how I played with his head, about how I was placating him with words to confuse and belittle him and how I was a calculating heartless cunt. You can add that to the list. Brain, heart. I’m down for the count.

That one never uttered the words, but I know the signs now. I’ll fade away before anything comes out of his mouth. Some might call it retreat. I call it survival.

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I have always felt different in my head. All my life, from my fist memories, I always new my difference was not only in my personality, but that it went much further. It can be a heavy burden. There are times I feel trapped, I feel like a prisoner of my thoughts. But of course I can’t help thinking the way I do. I considered therapy often (when it was not heavily suggested to me by one of the hims), but each time I tried, I felt like it was such a fucking waste of time I never went further than one session on a few occasions. I know this will sound incredibly pretentious, but fuck it, I’ll say it. I never felt they would understand me. The feeling I got after that one hour shitchat was one of extreme loneliness and isolation.

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Something strange and extraordinary happened the other day. Through an exchange on my friend Dave’s Facebook wall about introverts and extroverts, a friend suggested we did a little personality test. I KNOW. SHUT UP for a minute ok? Listen. I know it sounds stupid, futile, childish, I don’t care. Because for the very first time in my life, I found something, some kind of explanation that made sense. I did the test and was amused by the results. So I read a little further about what they meant. And this is what happened, this is what I learned:

INTPs are one of the rarest of personality types, only accounting for about 3–5% of the population.

And this, this is what gave me the greatest shock, for I never understood this about myself, but only felt the consequences of the mechanics of my brain:

INTPs are driven to understand a discussion from all relevant angles. Their impatience with seemingly indefensible ideas can make them particularly devastating at debate. When INTPs feel insulted, they may respond with sudden, cutting criticism. After such an incident, INTPs are likely to be as bewildered as the recipient. They have broken the rules of debate and exposed their raw emotions. To INTPs, this is the crux of the problem: improperly handled emotions, INTPs believe, can only harm. While INTPs experience emotions as an important part of their internal lives, and sometimes share their emotions with others, INTPs nevertheless believe that emotions must not play a role in logical discussions, or be expressed in a way that would put themselves at disadvantage.

I’m not saying that a 10 minute personality test and a wiki page changed my life. But somehow, since that night, I’ve felt a freedom in my thought process, like a weight was lifted, of maybe more accurately a veil of some kind. If that test was wrong so be it. I can live with that. The only thing that matters really, is that I can now articulate, in thought, my reactions and interactions. I understand where it comes from. I’ll never be anything else than what I am. It might not validate everything about me, but it sure helps.

Something happened today. A girl at the office got flowers delivered to her from her boyfriend. It wasn’t her birthday. It was just because. It got to me in a way I can’t explain. I’ve seen it happen many times before. It never left a dent. Maybe it’s my hormones, maybe it’s the accumulated stress of moving. Maybe I was just ripe for that kind of reaction. In any case, when I saw her face, and when I saw her mouth, her lips move to say “No, no birthday, no celebration. Just because.” I smiled, I moved on, I sat down. I felt a prodding, a push. And I let it in. Twenty five years, two relationships and I received flowers once. Never got breakfast in bed, no surprise parties, no romantic weekends, no candlelit dinners, nothing ever just because. I remember the two times I was taken to a restaurant where the bill came over a hundred dollars. It started out as “Oh, he’s not the romantic type” and ended as “Oh, I’m not the romantic type. I don’t like flowers. They’re expensive, they stink then they die.” And it’s true (that they die). Another constant absentee was compliments. “You’re beautiful” while wearing sex shop rags and high heels do not count. At 35, in my second relationship, I held hands and kissed in public for the first time in my life. And as much as I enjoyed it, it opened a crack that only grew through the years. I was never abused, merely neglected. I don’t cry for what is gone now, but for what I never had. I know that these things would not have made me happier in the long run. I know that things would have gone the way they have eventually. It’s the weight of telling myself that I got what I deserved, and that I did not deserve more than what I got that I cannot, will not bear anymore. I am a just because type of girl. Being a just because person is great, making people happy is a wonderful feeling. But when I start to question whether I am a just because girl because I wanted to be loved, it’s stirring things deep inside, it’s making me feel even guiltier. Of my passiveness, of my own neglect. Blaming others is hard for me, but it’s getting too heavy on my shoulders now. I’ve got to let this go, acknowledge where I’m at and let time do its work. I get flowers for myself now. I travel to places I’ve always wanted to travel. Slowly but surely I’m letting myself being kind to myself. My kindness will not be my weakness, not anymore. Please, please… be kind to the ones you love.

I think I know why it doesn’t work for me. the [things].

I want it to be as messed up and confused as it is in my head, inside, deep in there where it doesn’t matter to anyone but me. where I know where every[thing] is, where I can pick up some[thing] I left in a corner years ago, gathering dust, losing importance, until the moment I need it.

when I try to make sense of [things], it just does not fit anywhere in my mess. the boxes, those neat little boxes we’re supposed to fill diligently, store properly, in an organized, alphabetized way. classified. they just don’t fit. on top of a pile of my own important stuff they sit, not in the least securely, ready to fall, ready to explode on the floor and expose their nonsensical content to

it doesn’t work like that up here, in here. anybody who has set foot inside knows.
it doesn’t work like that
[things][exploded boxes]