Skip to main content

I'm not good at this game

 If all aspects of one's life should be in harmony I should not be writing this. It doesn't go with the rest of my life, this existence model I've chosen. 

I read/heard half of a book about two teenagers who were violently and continuously bullied in school by their psychopathic classmates. They took the beating up and insults silently to a masochistic degree. 3 hours of listening to consistent pathetic silent self defining suffering. I returned the book to the library half way of course. I have no time or energy for stories about pathetic people who do nothing to break a vicious cycle, who take all the suffering and think it makes them special, it defines them. While the world around them moves on, people grow up, grow old, die, and no one learns a life lesson about not bullying the hell out of others. I have no energy, full stop. 

The difficulty is, we all think we are doing something to break the cycle. We want to believe we are not passive. I believe that endlessly whining about my job means I really want a change. I think talking to my manager about my long hours and the little help I'm getting means I've spoken up & done something to deserve an improvement, that thinking about migrating is a strong move in rejecting the cycle of abuse. But in reality, I'm just a coward who lives on micro-rebellion and self-victimization. Even this confession is a feel-good coverup. Oh, look! I am so aware of how pathetic I am. I am the wisest  of cowards. At least I'm not delusional. 

But I am. & what's worse? I'm a cheat. I can no longer tell what's a genuine feeling and what's my plot. I start a game, I make an attempt at learning the rules and play the game, like everyone else. Then halfway through, I realize I'm really shit at this, I'll never win. So I start kicking, throwing up my hands, calling it boring, abusive, a waste of my precious time, & deep down I know the whole time how I wish I was good at this game.

I'm standing outside myself now. I'm looking at myself. I'm thinking "Enough with this shit show. What are you really gonna do? What's your fucking game?"

I'm scared to find out.

I wish I could return this book.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Office Shorts #2

Incoming email: Hi A, Thanks for the responses. I’ve given the matter a bit of thought and can’t reach a definite conclusion based on the information. I think it’s worthwhile having a quick workshop to clarify a few questions I’ve added in red. Can you all please confirm your availability this afternoon at X:30.  X:30 pm (Joining the Teams meeting of 8): -Hello. X+1:15 pm (Unmuting, muting, unmuting): -No, that was on Level 10 but yes, fairly s... (interrupted by Bob from Christchurch) X+2:30 pm -Thanks everyone. Bye. (Sigh, removes headset like a torture device)

The weekly record of not much

There’s this thing S and I do where we post photos on Sunday nights every week to record the year. Every weekend I look at my phone gallery and there are 56 photos of stuff on site, 1 or 2 of food, maybe a page of a book, my legs in front of TV. Not much really. So on Saturday or Sunday I force myself to go for a walk after work, just so I have an image of something other than working and eating. I believe the weekly record has served its purpose. I find it sad on an inspirational level. But so very true.

Plan for One

I simply cannot run without distraction. It’s so utterly boring and torturous that I have to listen to something interesting or else I won’t last more than 3k. That’s how I ended up listening to Edith Wharton’s “Mrs Manstey’s View” last weekend, thumping away on the treadmill.   It was a very curious coincident considering what was going on in my own life. The story is truly heartbreaking. Mrs Manstey has spent the last 17 years of her life in a 3rd floor room of a boarding house in New York. She’s an old widow with few visitors and is too frail to venture out anymore. So she spends her days sitting at her one window looking out to the neighbourhood. It’s not a striking view; small untidy gardens and occasional appearances of the house occupants and their servants at their windows. Mrs Manstey had never been an awfully sociable person and the window seemed to provide just enough entertainment. Until one day, the neighbouring boarding house owner decides to build an extension that w...