My inner freak

I was a freak when I was a kid. A total freak. And I knew it. I knew how much the other kids despised me, and while I developed multiple coping mechanisms, one came to define me. I can’t explain what it was, because if you know that fact about me, I’m pretty easy to pin down. But suffice to say that I made a career out of a coping mechanism (cm).

I also developed a fabulous inner-life connected to my CM. And sometimes the girl there is more real to me than my socially acceptable persona. But almost know one knows her. I hid her, for her own good of course, and let her come out to play occasionally armored only in the language of post-modern literary theory. She is safe hidden in the obtuse deconstructions because no one knows she is there, so no one can hurt her, hidden safely in nuances and obfuscations.

But there is one place she can come out to play, for real. And that is a place I am a completely different person. I’m a diva, popular, confident. And pretty. In that one little corner, I have star power. And palpable joy.

My best friend comes with me. She doesn’t understand why I love being there so much, but she loves being with that part of me. And she brags about me, because she thinks I’m worth bragging about there.

I always tried to get my ex to come with me. Tried and tried and tried. But he never would. He never understood that maybe, just maybe, if you love someone, you might give them an evening. Finally he came once, after everything was over, and made such a huge deal of it that my inner-diva couldn’t come out and play.

And today, he mentioned casually, that he did something comparable with another girl. On their second date. Not a big deal, just because she wanted to. And he devastated me. I felt so worthless. We lived together for a year, and he would never do that with me. Had no interest in getting to know that side of me. No interest in my inner-life at all. I was a buddy, whom he could fuck. But not like he’d ever want to know what made my eyes light with joy. Not like he cared about me at all. I know he’d say I’m over-reacting, and I suppose I am.

But I feel like such a reject. Like someone that no one will ever love. And I’ll die alone. With my blog and my cats and a shrink I pay $150 an hour to pretend to care.