Deafening Silence

I’ve never known which was worse – feeling alone with a plethora of people physically around you or “in touch” with you or feeling alone because you are, truly, physically and mentally alone. I guess they’re both equally awful and equally unavoidable because let’s, or I, rather given the fact being that it is I who feels alone right now, must face it – if you are the type to feel alone, you’ll feel alone whether others are surrounding you or not.

On the campaign, there were moments I felt more full of love and joy from others than I’ve felt in my entire life. This was for about the first month. So much love. So much understanding.

Somewhere, I realized I had not put my warning labels up – that I had flashed some signs of caution.. but that was not enough. Soon enough the parts of me that are so undesirable would creep through, and ruin the experience of perfection everyone else was feeling.

It’s funny, my signs of caution in this setting would normally be seen as “get the fuck away before you’re part of the damaged goods” in other scenarios, but here, in a safe Beto space, my signs of caution were seen, as one told me, as badges of bravery. “I have been raped.” “My father abandoned our relationship.” “I experienced discrimination in the workplace.” “I quit my job and don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” These are all things that really, in most instances, one would think would not be celebrated… but would likely incite the slow but steady walk away. You know the one – the one where the conversation seems to be going well but then you drop the bomb… the other party acts like it doesn’t matter and then steadily figuratively backs up in the conversation and then suddenly backs up physically from the conversation.

This wasn’t the case here. In Beto 2018, I was celebrated for my “bravery.” Put at ease for my uncertainty. In a cool kids club for quitting my job and saying no to corporate America.

Well, I’m not sure if this is a chicken or the egg scenario, but this sort of acceptance can only last so long. Our Mecca lasted, as long as it could have, before suddenly I knew: either I was the fraud or I was being fraudulently supported. The vibe wasn’t there. The trust. The support system. The insider feeling… it was gone. I told others outside of the campaign the second I knew. They told me give it a few days and the feeling would subside. It didn’t.

We become the person we expect others will expect us to be.

So I don’t know if it’s the chicken or the egg. I became, or at least I think I became, a scarred person who let my scars show. My scars did not seem to be celebrated – or perhaps I just felt that way. I don’t know.

I know a few things. I know my thoughts are incredibly scattered right now and I know that many from the campaign word feel that way too. I know we were warned of feeling all of these ups and downs after the campaign and to spend the time after the campaign with those we love and who love us.

I know that many people from the campaign spent every waking moment together afterwards because those were the people they know loved them. I know I have spent most of my time alone. Searching for those that make me feel loved.

Chicken or the egg. Yet again. How can you find those that make you feel loved if you aren’t capable of feeling loved – or, is it, that those in your life who do love you, which dear lord I hope exists for me, who truly love me, don’t know how to express it. Or is it that I don’t know how to accept it?

I do know that there’s been less of the expressing recently and more of the feeling alone. The doomsday feeling of alone. This is not a cry for help because I have too much pride to do that and frankly, am too self-aware and would get annoyed with random people reaching out to me. It’s just a curious musing.. at what point do you truly become unlovable? Unbearable? Are they the same thing?

What about just … uninvitable? Not a word, I know, but the person that people stop inviting to things. Either because they think they’re too cool, you haven’t shown up in the past, or because their everyday life is simply functioning without you as a true consideration? How many times have I done this to others? Infinite, I’m sure. I’m sure as I write this, there is someone out there who today thought that abandoned our friendship. But perhaps that is too self-Indulgent to think that way.

The feeling of annoyance is deafeningly loud. I mean, the feeling of being annoying. Somehow, the silence from others, the desire of meaning, the feeling of being a constant nuisance for trying to surround myself with those I Love, has turned into a deafening roar. Yet the silence is destroying me.

Entitlement

Dogs on your pillow. The definition of entitlement.

Alright let’s start with the elephant in the room – yes, I am on the older side of the millennial spectrum so apparently by the very definition of my existence I am entitled. Phew, glad that’s done. 
Ok, back to the real problem. My freakin dog loooooves pillows. I’m not talking will put his head on a pillow if it’s there or sneaking a cuddly comforting pillow grab in every now and then…. no, my 21 pound dog and I have full blown wars over my feather down pillows. 
Those who know me know me not as a single 27 year-old, but a single 27 year-old with her beloved dog Duke. Need quirky evidence? Check out @schnauzergonnaschnauze and while you’re there, please follow (I’m having the hardest time breaking 7,000!). 
Let’s go back to the beginning- Duke, my love, was originally my brother’s dog, and, for good reason, became mine when he was about one. My brother did an unbelievable job training him. I mean, this dog was one years old, only had accidents when he was sick and has become the best loyal companion a gal can ask for. 
Writing this makes me remember all of the duke related posts that I definitely need to follow up with, including when he was the pope dog when the pope came to philadelphia…. remind me if I forget. He’s a universal super star.
So back to the main point – this dog is perfect. Freaking perfect. EXCEPT HE STEALS MY PILLOWS. I push him off, he gets back on. I bought him a pillow from target… it apparently wasn’t good enough. His favorite? Sitting on the top of the couch pillows and absolutely ruining them. I finally cracked down on it and he at least pretended that he wasn’t doing it… problem was whenever I came home there was always a schnauzer sized dent in the pillow. Clever Duke, but not clever enough. 
So, now that I’m staying with my grandmother, she has really started commenting on his pillow habits and I’ve learned I’m an awful dog mother to let him be so entitled. Am I a terrible mother for ignoring his bad habits because it’s easier?
This makes me wonder, is this a fucking nature vs nurture situation? Was he born this way or have I turned my dog into #millennialdog? Whatever, this blog post is the result of me not wanting to chat with my uber driver today because I stayed out too late spending too much money and am headed to a bougie beer garden that I’ll probably snap about. I mean, I know it’s not about me, but I feel like I deserve to come home after the Texans game and not have a dog on MY pillow.