last month, someone i considered a friend called me a compulsive liar because of something i told her. later, it turned out to be true. still, she wouldn't apologize. that irritated me. but i wouldn't let her see it. i sat quietly, expressionless, emotionless. even as she yelled at me that i was in her house, i couldn't ignore her, i had to say something, i stayed quiet. my reasoning was that she didn't deserve any response from me. so she told me i had to either say something or get out of her house. it was two in the morning. she lives far enough from me (and in a bad enough area) for a trip to be slightly dangerous at that time.

i left.

the trip home was uncomfortable. i was torn between irrepressible anger at her disrespect, a piercing sadness at another person disappointing me, and a sense of elation from not having shown either of those to her. i think i was probably more upset because her view of me was distorted, but not in the way i would have liked. i hate when people think i'm better than i am. i hate when people think i'm worse than i am. but i didn't want to tell her that. i couldn't. it just barely makes sense, even now.

i can say, i did lie to one of my friends the other day. indirectly, but i suppose that still counts. he gave me the fountainhead as a birthday present (mid february), and i only got around to reading it close to the end of the school semester (early may). he asked me if i liked it, and which parts i liked. i said i liked it because of two characters: roark and dominique. he began to ramble about all the finer parts of the book that i must have loved; i agreed with him. truthfully, though, i really only loved them because-- before i continue, just remember something must really be wrong with me. i mean that. something that's supposed to be there isn't. or maybe something that shouldn't be there is. (also, despite my best attempts to organize my jigsaw puzzled thoughts here, i'm not always sure i can do that in a way that makes sense to others. so i apologize in advance.) i really only loved them because they seemed to be so indifferent to food, people, emotions. at least, when i was reading it at first. yeah, the writing was great. the story was great. but those two were extraordinary. my friend said i had a bit of both of them in me, with more of dominique.

nothing else he's ever said to me made me that happy.

i'm pretty sure that reading that book wasn't the best thing in the world, at least for me. i'm sure anyone else could read it and stay totally normal. for a mentally unstable person such as myself, in a land where normal is already anything but, it was definitely not a great choice. i spent the first week devouring that book and drinking nothing but tea constantly. endlessly. headphones in, eyes on the pages. completely shut off from the outside world. when i finished reading it, i spent about two hours staring at my ceiling and thinking of all the effluvia i had to get rid of. all of the things i had previously believed were necessary that obviously people could live without. if a character in a highly realistic (and still fictional) novel can do it, why can't i?

it made me feel terribly dependent. since then, i've been on this never-ending quest to complete independence. some part of me knows that i don't really mean independence, i mean freedom. a degree of it that would probably lead right to my self-destruction. 

take, for example, something as simple as having my license. my mother said she'd buy a used car for me: one, because she knows i'd hate having to ask for the keys to her car; two, because i'd hate to feel guilty about having a new car, and; three, because our schedules and lives don't intersect unless i want them to, so i couldn't borrow her car. if i had my own method of transportation, i'd get a job so i could afford to keep my supplies stocked constantly. i'd stay at school longer, under the pretense of studying, because i won't can't don't eat there. i'd be so intoxicated with solitude, because i wouldn't need anyone to drive me anywhere. i could drive myself anywhere i wanted.

i love ayn rand's definition of freedom. to ask nothing. to expect nothing. to depend on nothing. 

that's my goal right now.



Ashley Nichole said...

Sorry about your friend/thing that went sour! Sometimes people just don't see things with the same point of view and that can cause so many conflicts!

Also congrats on maybe getting a car, that is super exciting.

A book I totally recommend is Magical Thinking. It is one of the few books that I actually finished in like a week instead of letting it sit and collect dust like the rest.

Rowan said...

Rand's freedom does sound attractive, I know. I catch myself wanting it at times, too. But then, I find that I have faith in human interaction and its capacity to create meaning. Maybe a problem we share is a tendency to isolate ourselves, to appear to be strong and independent, when a life of interdependence, say in a community, is so much richer. I don't know. Sorry to wax philosophical on you. xx

ꜛⱴאּ Sⱥm ŁupiƝ ҂ said...

friends suck. let them all die. the end.
i can legit feel all those emotions that you're just describing about leaving.
i have written characters that are . indifferent to everything. logic-bound type of characters i like. think Spock in Star Trek sort of.
how can people live without this shit
and omg tea. i like tea. i want tea. i'll go get tea. <--wow that escalated quickly
self-destruction. freedom. i get that. especially with sleeping and eating. i feel like if i break free out of this household and live on my own, then i would only buy things i want to eat. things that i can eat. also as well as sleeping. i can buy sleeping pills and leave them around and nobody would care. oh the joys of living alone sounds grand right now.
his definition of freedom sounds nice. but also highly unlikely to me.
-Sam Lupin

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