I am not good. I am not kind. I am selfish. I am mean. I am sometimes cruel. I am self-centered and self-absorbed.

Becoming these things has been a process. It has become a process because without these traits my life was extremely problematic. When I spend more time worrying about other peoples needs instead of my own then I tend to develop health problems. My psychological issues get worse. I become far less functional.

Animals require care. Dogs, cats, rabbits, birds, fish… whatever kind of animal you want to have around requires care. You have to feed it, keep it clean, give it water, love it, sometimes clip nails, sometimes clean out the cage… etc.

I require a lot of care in order to not be a screaming harpy. I am very sorry for this. In no way shape or form do I think this care should come from outside myself. I do not write because I want people to jump up and care for me. I would react with extreme hostility if you tried. You are not my keeper. You won’t be here tomorrow. I don’t want your half-assed-sorta-guilty help. I just don’t. It won’t actually make my life better.

If you have starving cats wandering around your neighborhood feeding them one time is not going to improve their life. It will make you have warm fuzzy feelings of being a good person for an act that is mostly meaningless in the lives of the affected target. That is how I feel about people helping me.

If I come to you and say, “Can you help with _____” that is absolutely all I am asking for help with. If you start trying to manage my anxiety while helping with _______ I am going to freak out at you. That’s not your job. My anxiety is not your problem. You can’t fix it. It is a very old problem. When you act like your bubble gum as bonding agent solution should be good enough for me you are being incredibly fucking rude. And you don’t even know it. And you really don’t give a shit. You have your warm fuzzies. If I don’t react appropriately obviously I am just an ungrateful bitch.

I have learned how to live with being an ungrateful bitch. Other peoples scraps of attention are how I piece together a life. I don’t have a big piece of anyone. I get small pieces. I get what they have to spare.

I don’t ask for more. I don’t want more. I am not trying to become a big part of your life. I don’t think I am capable of having that with anyone but the three people I live with. I don’t have enough to give.

I don’t have the ability to form really bonded relationships at this point. I am broken. I do not trust people. I assume that if I am stupid enough to continue to exist that every few weeks or months someone is going to scream at me for being so mean. Yup, I’m mean. I have learned to live with it.

I can’t avoid people getting upset with me and still exist in public. The only way I can see to avoid having people be upset with me is for me to entirely fade out of any sort of publicly accessible space. Otherwise I *will* offend people. Period.

I have to act like I am entitled to exist even though I offend you. Even though you think my behavior sucks. Even though you think I am not a nice person. Even though you think you can’t manage my anxiety. I didn’t bloody ask you to. My anxiety is mine. Stop acting like my problems are your problems. There is this great concept called “Boundaries”.

If I do not come to you with particular requests for behavior modification assume that I have no interest in you modifying your behavior on my behalf. I think that people act how they act because of a long history that I am pretty much not ever going to know about. I don’t think they need to change because of me.

Let’s be clear that I assume that most people I see in real life are going to fade out of my life after one-to-five years. I am not invested. I am sorry for that. I’m sure it makes people feel bad. I’m sure it makes people feel like I don’t care about them.

Well, I care about me more. I want to be alive when I am no longer a temporarily amusing person for you to talk to. I have to not care very much about your priorities. You won’t be in my life long enough for me to care what you think.

I don’t feel like a very good person for this. But it is realistic.

I am having a very hard time with the fact that I don’t constantly move any more. All of my behavior patterns are slash and burn. I find friends quickly and easily and I lose them even more easily.

Yeah, I know it is my fault. Blah blah blah. All my fault. Yup, I know. I realize that people don’t stay in my life because I am so unpleasant. Yup, I know. Thing is, it doesn’t matter how pleasant I try to make myself appear… if you stand near me for a few more minutes you will notice it is an act. Then you won’t like me any more. Then you will leave.

Forgive me for not crying over all of you. I would never stop crying.

I am not important to people. Well, they will give me the hand wavey “Oh I care about you!” but I’m not in peoples lives in a consistent way. I am someone they like to see when they can. I am not an essential part of life for more than three people.

I can’t build my self worth around people who only pay attention to me when they have nothing better to do. I have to be self-absorbed. I have to think my story is interesting. I have to think it is worth telling. I have to think it is ok to make the choices I make. The alternative is to kill myself.

I can’t please everyone. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I have tried and I have busted my head against that wall so often that there is a permanent dent in the wall and my head. I am not something that is pleasing to people. I can’t change that any more than I can change what race I was born.

My isolation is my fault. I’m not blaming anyone else. I’m not saying that those people are bad for not wanting to put up with me. I think they need to have boundaries. Good for them.

I need to have boundaries too. Boundaries like, “I am not like you. If me being different makes you feel attacked then STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME BECAUSE IT ISN’T MY PROBLEM THAT YOU HAVE FEELINGS.”

In no way shape or form do I want to say that I “understand the black experience” because I don’t but when I hear black men talk about what it is like to have white women fear them as they walk down the street I see a glimmer. I can understand a slice of that.

For the record, black men do not intimidate me. My problems are with white men.

I remember a conversation amongst a bunch of perverts years ago. (I use “perverts” with great affection.) Man A was talking about how easy/hard it is to find the scene. He said something to the effect of, “I tried finding the bdsm community when I was 19. When I came to a party and saw people beating the shit out of people it scared me and I left. I didn’t come back until I was 35. It wasn’t up to the people in that room to make me comfortable. I had to just be comfortable or I had to leave.”

He said that in response to like four other people saying that heavy or edge play was not appropriate in a public play space because it might scare newbies.

I’m an edge player. Ok, I haven’t done much bdsm in years and things are going to be interesting to figure out with Noah once I actually get up the nerve to go there again. I am an extreme player. If you ask a random group of perverts about their preferences mine are often some of the most intense.

I am not mild and unoffensive. I will never be. That is not a goal.

If I bother you, that’s totally ok. I do that. I bother people. I am an irritant. I am annoying and difficult and offensive.

But if you pay attention you will notice that I rein in like 95% of this when you are talking to me in public. My self absorption is not something I shove in peoples’ faces all day. I go out and I ask questions about other peoples lives. I listen to their stories. I want to hear about what other people think and feel and do. I just don’t want to emulate any of it.

I understand that people don’t want to hear about people like me. You know that difficulty in putting up with me? That’s the “extreme mental illness” that has been diagnosed over and over since I was a small child. No, I don’t think I am fucking normal.

But is it ok for me to exist? I am not anything near the most self absorbed person in the world even though I am extremely self absorbed. I am no where near the meanest person in the world even though I am mean. I am not ever going to be the most violent person even though I have tendencies.

I’m not the most extreme everything. I am just annoying. I’m not dangerous just irritating. Is it ok for me to exist?

I have had a friend volunteer a friend to finish the projects in my yard. Things will work out.

I’m ok with people needing to put up boundaries to keep me out of their life. I would think there was something wrong with the world if people didn’t put up big boundaries keeping me out of their life. That is just the natural order of things.

I had children so that I would have little people who understood my culture. I don’t know if they will share it when they are done growing up–I doubt they will be as crazy as I am. But someone will have a chance of predicting my behavior accurately.

I can’t invest in anyone else. I have two children into whom I must pour everything I have to give.

That’s a big fat lie. I pour pieces of myself into other things all the time. I have friends. I have a friend sleeping in the garage right now who has loved me since I was 17. (Technically we met when I was 15. The boy I wanted liked her more than me. That’s typically the story of my life. Except for Noah.)

I can’t be upset or take it personally when people walk away. Not everyone does. I have to take what people can hand off comfortably and not feel entitled to any more. I can be self absorbed and selfish but I may not be entitled. I’m not entitled to any-fucking-thing. Especially not relationships. Holy shit am I not entitled to relationships.

I try to be nice to people. I try to be considerate. I try to be a good and supportive friend. I give what I have to give. If the fact that I also write about a lot of anxiety is a problem, well… then I can’t do anything more than what I am doing. I have to believe that I have shot my wad and that’s what I have to give.

Then keep walking. Or die. I choose to keep walking. I choose to not attach. I love people but I am always prepared to let them go. “If you love them set them free” and all that shit.

I am shocked that I still know K. I didn’t think that any of my mommy-friends would last for more than a year or two. I was at her sons first birthday and next month I will be at his fourth birthday party. Three years is pretty long for me in a close friendship. Seven years is really the kicker though. We’ll see.

Pam, I do expect you to get sick of me one of these days. I know you say you won’t. But I’ve heard that a lot. I have been told by hundreds of people that they love me and will never leave me. I don’t bother to listen to the end of that sentence any more. It is such a fucking lie.

I’m self absorbed because I’m the only one who has to do the work to keep me alive. It is a lot of work. If I don’t take it seriously I will not continue to be functional or alive.

Sometimes when I am told that I think I love my kids more than other people do (well my first thought is “Really? I think that? When did I think that, precisely?”) I think that it isn’t that I love my kids more. It is that I have no one else in the world to safely pour my love into. So it seems more obvious and noticeable by contrast. I’m not all that nice to random people so it seems all the more startling that I am so gentle and affectionate and loving with my kids.

Based on my writing I don’t seem like the sit and cuddle gently sort.

My kids are the only people in the whole fucking world who get to touch my body for many hours a day. My husband isn’t allowed to touch me like my kids are. My kids act like we have one body and they occasionally orbit off but then they are coming back to reattach.

We went to a birthday party recently and Calli fell down. A bunch of mothers leaped up to help her. They got there before me. I kind of hung back. I don’t push to the front. I don’t assume I am the important one. But Calli pushed them away from her and said, “I want my mommy.”

That is why I had kids. That moment of affirmation. Someone thinks I am the best. Even if it is only two people and even if it is only for a few years before they grow up and hate my guts like everyone else.

For now, I am the best. And they love me so much. And I love them. This is all I have.