Cul-de-sac

I have a pretty sick habit of taking apart and analyzing some weirdos for my own pleasure. The thing is I have a profound need to communicate whatever I take account of. And poor is the people who happen to rub up against me in constant basis for they might have to cover their ears and scream for their lives so that I will stop and shut my mouth up.

The sick thing is I know that what they need actually not another weirdo-playing-counselor, friend, girlfriend, lover, whatever you call it. All they need is a professional therapist–that if they ever realize to seek any professional help for their destructive behavior. But not all weirdo is that crazy, most of them is just a little skunk that any normal people would avoid for their own sanity.

But when most would run to the opposite way, I go to the other way. Call it my empath side or just my plain crazy urge to understand that their bad behavior might be the by-product of their maltreatment during childhood or some other stupid reasons, not to justify what they do, but to find that even with bad experience from the past, people still have second chance to clean up and move on. For a realist, I’m pretty optimistic.

But why should I spend my time taking care of other’s feelings while I’m abandoning myself? I might make hundreds excuses  that I’m surrounded with love so that I have to shine it everywhere. Now I’m not only another weirdo-playing-counselor, I’m also a great Martyr.

The thing is I love drama and this particular person would add up drama and spice up my life with some absurdity that I won’t have if I choose to have a straight normal way. The churning stomach in desperation, anger, helplessness, unrealistic ambition, delusional fantasy, warm feelings, hurt, infatuation, denial, hate, betrayal, frustration, you name it.

And what make it even sicker is the more they turn me down in some nasty ways–suddenly go away without saying goodbye, not returning my message, ignoring me and taking me as if I’m not exist, the more persistent I am to cling to them. And then when I can’t take it anymore,  I’m wailing over my tragic life, feeling rejected and unwanted. Then when the shed of light of sanity comes, I raise up with dignity and the aura of mater dolorosa and I’m relishing in my own dramatic soul.

What is happening next is pretty predictable. They would suddenly realize I’m cutting of the energy that used to sustain them and innocently they would ask, “You’re leaving? You don’t want to talk anymore with me?” and I would be running back and throwing myself at their feet for feeling once again needed. The cycle then once again begins–me sacrificing myself, the hate and anger for not feeling fulfilled, me feeling sorry for myself, struggling to move on, another plea, another come-back, another hate and anger, another remorse, another…

I’ve been watching that most people love their own mental sadomasochism, inflicting pain on themselves and others for deriving pleasure from that. I guess I’m one of them now. Maybe what makes me different from most people that I do it with conscience. And even when I’m trying to minimize the collateral damage (i.e. my own sanity versus my dramatic side), my intuition is displaying a rather bright future by singing Agnes Monica‘s Indah, picturing that the cherry blossom in the garden is less beautiful than my love story.

Maybe my next drama would be me playing as a helpless princess waiting to be saved from the evil me by a prince charming. Me is indeed my biggest enemy.

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