I found two things while cleaning out my drafts:
1. A fragment of an argument I apparently thought was important enough to save
2. My Spotify Top Songs of 2020
And honestly? The two belong together like eyeliner and existential despair.
My 2020 mood was:
β’ Iβm Not Okay (I Promise) β the national anthem
β’ Famous Last Words β my delusion that I had boundaries
β’ Welcome to the Black Parade β me marching around my living room at 2am
β’ Billie Eilish whispering anxiety directly into my spine
β’ Panic! At The Disco being the soundtrack of my poor decisions
So of course the conversation I found reads like: A grown man trying to explain why treating me like an emotional crash mat was actually HIM protecting HIMSELF.
Freud would have cleared his schedule, slapped down a huge sack of coke and said, βSir, you are dating your mother, not this woman.β
Because the whole energy was:
Him:
βI pushed you away because I was afraid.β
Me:
βYou literally called me ugly.β
Him:
βBecause I didnβt want to like you.β
Sir???
Dr. Phil???
Gerard Way, come get your cousin.
His logic was basically: I was so scared of being hurt that I hurt you first.
Repeatedly. With confidence.
Classic emo boy behaviour β but with adult taxes and a driverβs license. And it kept circling back to that universal male thesis:
βI wanted a woman who was not what I wanted, because the woman I DID want made me feel things. But I am Peter Pan size XXL and I am really more into Wendy than the mermaids at the lagoon and those Lost Boys? YES PLEASE.β
Which is just a poetic way of saying:
βI tried to date women I felt in control of so my feelings would not activate too deeply.
Except with my penis.β
Like choosing bland cereal so you will not overeat. Unless you are on drugs. Or held hostage for several weeks and starved.
Meanwhile I was over here, full-grown, paying bills, listening to Vampires Will Never Hurt You like I was fighting demons in a Victorian asylum, trying to understand why men do this thing where they want a girlfriend and a mother and an emotional hostage all in one.
Freud would have been foaming at the mouth (βGirlβ¦ that might be an OD. Maybe see a doctor? Oh.β)
The whole vibe was:
β’ him spiraling
β’ me seeing the pattern
β’ him apologising for the wrong thing
β’ me pointing out the right thing
β’ him blinking like a confused IKEA lamp with the wrong wattage bulb.
And somewhere in the background, bury a friend plays.
2020 was a YEAR.
But honestly? Reading it now with my emo playlist in the backgroundβ¦
it is hilariously tragic.
It is very βgrown men are still emotional teenagers with beards.β
And it is comforting to know: I survived it. With Billie Eilish, MCR and a dramatic sense of humour
Emo never left. We just pay mortgages now.
