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[anonymouskar]

Existential pain, the journey to proper living, art and love

The last post I made on here sucked. And for a long time I’ve had no desire to write anything with more insight or honesty at all. I often want to write on here after I’ve had my fits of desperate crying. This is just a ramble of thougths I’m having these last few days. I can’t structure them properly.

Long ass, depressing text (be careful exposing yourself to such negativity, haha):

I think I have been depressed for months. I always intuitively understood depression as a reaction to life circumstances that denied your true self. I’m not at all convinced it is a medical condition. It comes when you have no proof of the parts of you that redeem the pain of being you. It comes when life doesn’t validate your worth. And I think that is mostly due to a lack of social belonging, especially in our digital, individualistic time. No tribe.

To me, we seem to be split in two. One part of us that holds the eternal, spiritual, connected and secure us, and one that holds the conscious, animal, isolated ego us. I don’t think either of these are more “true”. I don’t subscribe to any philosophy that puts one over the other. I had a tragedy happen to me, and it blocked me from living in the animal ego world. To overcome it I had to sacrifice, and I had to face everything I was most afraid of. I did it to be able to live in the natural world. I know that is why I did it. I did it because that was the only way I could manifest in that world. I didn’t do it because I thought it would make me happy, really. I did it just to make myself possible.

We all have loads to carry. And we all know with outselves that we are deeply flawed. I know about myself that I’m scared, perverted, spiteful, jealous, limited, ugly, stinking. We all know this about ourselves. It makes it hard to love ourselves. I’m not sure loving yourself is even possible. I’ve tried so much self-help in attempts to reach that, I’ve tried strengthening my ego, I’ve tried deconstructing it, I’ve tried to examine my unconscious, I’ve tried grounding myself in my body, I’ve tried alone, I’ve tried with others, I’ve tried to be stoic, I’ve tried reprogramming my unconscious. But I still can’t reach the conclusion: I am worthy. In fact I think I’m totally unworthy. And I also think that about almost every other person. Because when I look around, I see despair, dysfunction, fear - but in that I see what is beautiful, too. I love others because they are limited, scared, voulnerable. And I can appretiate that in myself, but I still don’t see worthyness.

It remains to me a total mystery that someone can just know they are worthy. Worthy of love, connection, recognition. It’s a mystery to me that someone can know that about themselves. I can’t comprehend ever living like that. Like I’m a man someone I like could want. Or that I’m someone anybody could want to live with. In fact, when people who have initially liked me, and invited me to them, I’ve always seemed to massively dissapoint them. Too shy to open up. Too scared to stand sexual tension. Too self-hating to be patient with. Too quiet to be entertained with. Too passive to excite. I dissapoint, disgust and bore.

I didn’t think I would find myself crying myself to sleep at this point. I’m 23, I’ve gotten my life somewhat in order. Seen from the outside I have every reason to smile now, compared to before. I’ve grown a beautiful beard, I’m built and slim. I look better than I ever have. I sometimes think I’m sexy. I dress well. I paint better than I ever have before, I’m in better shape than ever. I know more now than ever. I’ve taken responsability for my own life and earn my own living doing something I enjoy. I have enough money now to spend on things that should inspire me. But I look around at my paintings, and all I see is failed attempts. I found myself thinking exactly that. “Fucking ugly failed attempts”. It’s harder than ever for me to paint, because I know I will end up hating every single painting. There are two paintings I’ve ever made that I love, and those are exactly the ones I’m ashamed to show anyone because they are kitschy clishes. I’m a clishe.

I tried as good as I could manage, where I was at, to live, but I always end up looking back at failed attempts. And as long as I can go back and somehow attempt to correct them, I still have hope, but it rarely helps. As long as there is progress, right? But if the progress never gets you there anyways? When has progress ever gotten us anywhere good? “I’m making progress”, well, isn’t that just an empty hope? Isn’t hope just a reason to prolong suffering?

Hope has been such a defining word in my life. It’s has been the reason I bothered to go on. I’ve never seriously contemplated taking my own life, but I’ve had fantasies of dying. On a plane for example, I’d imagine being relieved if it crashed. Don’t think I could ever sit in a moment with myself and decide to die, but maybe accepting it with a sigh of relief if death came to me.

The way I can most accurately describe how it feels to live right now, is swimming in the ocean. I’m just keeping my head over water, if I constantly swim. And it’s not that I see anywhere to swim to, I’m merely motivated by my absolute fear of sinking into despair underneath me. The ocean is made up of resignation from life. It’s where I came from. I swam up so that I could give myself a chance to experience life. And around me, I see others doing the same, but they all seem to have something to hold onto. A piece of wood, a direction, another person, an island even. Something to give them some relief.

I was told you could choose in life. You could choose to pursue what made you happy. Isn’t that the great narrative of this era. “Become the best version of yourself, be true to yourself and become happy at last”. Well, for one it seems to me that we have almost no control over our own choices. I’m sceptical to free will. Because how can I choose my desires? How can I choose my temperament? How can I choose my choices? What leads me to act as I do seems to me to be totally beyond me. Those are forces that are ancient, mysterious and so much stronger than me. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to reprogram myself. I’ve tried that by constructing a life that would demonstrate to me who I could be. I’ve tried to narrate my own story. I’ve asked myself “What do you want to experience?”, and I’ve tried to pursue that.

And you could ask, why force it? Why outline expectations of a life experience? Why seek out experience? Well, what other reason would there be to come to this life, than to experience? I WANT to exerience. I deeply want to. I want to experience connection, love, sex, friendship, passion. I want to fuck a woman like a man. I want to smile and look at her tenderly. I want to be a father to a child. I want to travel somwhere with a family. I want to go on hikes. I want to paint good paintings. I want to drive a car to my house. I want to have a garden and see my wife work in it while she sings to herself. I want to walk out of the shower with her in the room. I’m willing to pay for these things with years of pain. That is another life lesson I’ve learned. You have to pay for everything that is good, with pain. But I don’t see myself getting closer to it. “Progress”. Aren’t these the things that matter in life? If I died now, I know I’d think about my moments of greatest intimate connection and intimacy. I would think of smiles, glances, touch, voulnerable words shared. So, that is what I want to experience, because I think this IS what truly matters. I think it is what almost every person alive is mostly concerned with. Connection.

What upsets me most, lately, is my constant ruminations on my failed romance. Again and again and endlessly I blame myself for it all. I think back on all the oppertunities that presented themselves to me. She forgave my foolish mistakes again and again. I did everything wrong in the book, and still she came back. I said self-defeating things, I teased her too much, I was unclear in my communication, I was weak and afraid, endlessly insecure, I talked to much, I self-pitied, I over-shared. Did everything wrong. When I looked at her, alone in a room, when the atmosphere was tender and I melted inside because she was so oddly familiar and curious and beautiful. I looked away and acted cold because I was afraid of rejection. And I ended up making her reject me because I rejected myself. And I hate myself more for doing that. I never learned to stop, I just learned to hate myself more. Now when I see her I can see how she wants away from me. She is awkward. Maybe she’s ashamed too. I can’t do anything about it. But it makes me cry every time. I think I still love her. Stupid me, I love her. I love how she is. I saw a promise in her when I first met her. I found something that felt like I could belong to. I connected. I attatched myself. I thought she could nurture me, like people who matter nurture each other. It’s no shame in that, is there? Is there shame in needing validation and nurturing? Isn’t that what we all do?

Then why did I fail? If I fail again and again, in sexual, romantic encounters, then surely it’s me, and I should understand it personally, right? It’s not constant bad luck. I take it personally because it demonstrates how I can’t be who I wanted to experience life as, no matter how hard I try. And it’s a total mystery to me how someone can just accept love. They don’t know how lucky they are. Every person who has ever had someone knew that they were worthy, loveable, no matter how dysfunctional the relationship.

I don’t know that, and life demonstrates to me that I’m not.

[anonymouskar]

I’ve begun to cry regularly again lately. I’ve worked in construction for two months now. I’ve begun to get used to it. The best days are when I get to work all alone. I listen to audiobooks and music. It seems like my colleagues finally have understood that I actually am competent, and my social position there is getting better. But to me, the social interactions are a constant stressor. I know I can’t connect to anyone there. It’s just superficial jokes and domineering games. I tell you, the world is full of weak men, insecure men. Men who know that they will never be loved, and they are bitter. Men in constant competition, men who never dare to be vulnerable - and thereby can’t be loveable.

They tell me to ditch the pretentious art world. The world of big egos, lies, snobbish conformity and flattery. They tell me to follow the money, in the end, you have to pay the bills. And your art will be more free and honest if you make it for yourself anyways. And I see their points. There are too many romantics like me wanting to make it. 

On the other hand, I have distanced myself from her.. I figured it was the best thing to do. I don’t really know when it happened. Probably after she asked about sex, which was in December. I frequently see her, because we are in the same circles, and it is always so painfully tender and brutal when we meet. I will walk right past her, pretend I don’t care she is there. I will feel her looking at me from across the room. She is there with her husband. She talks to everyone. But suddenly she stands in a group totally silent, in thought. One day I passed her, just like that, pretending not to notice her, and I could feel her head suddenly turn towards me and hear a faint “hello”. But she gave up. When we meet I talk with haste and I don’t even smile. She doesn’t either. She looks anxious. Then she leaves, and I watch her leave, but inside I want to run after her and embrace her. Shout “wait!”. Then I walk home and cry because I didn’t. And I wonder if she would even want that. I wonder if I rejected her to spare myself from being rejected by her (again). I certainly haven’t moved on. In fact, I think of her every single day at work. I wish she saw me working. I wish she came to see me so that I could show her how well I did. From the window at work I can see her house. At night I replay everything that happened between us. I try to figure out how I could have done it differently. I imagine her in the doorway, I imagine her in my bed.

I think I am profoundly lonely. I’m not alone, I have good friends, I go out and meet people sometimes, but I’m lonely. I don’t belong with anyone. There is nobody I can be totally vulnerable with. I struggle to believe that I can ever let someone touch me or kiss me. I’m afraid I will be hurt and rejected again and again like I was by her. I got my hopes up that there actually was a woman like her that could love and nurture someone like me.

Today I’m applying for art school in another city. I’m applying for many things. The plan is to get away from here, and again attempt to become who I can become. The point isn’t to become an artist or get a degree. The point is to experience who I can be. I want to meet people, I’m desperate to learn to live and love.

But for now, I continue to miss her so much. I wish I could write her something, give her a gift, see her. She doesn’t know how much I love her and thank her for what she has done for me. One day I will have to tell her. I will have to go visit her and say goodbye and thank her.

[anonymouskar]

I got a job. A stable, brand new job. Wich led me to leave my frequent visitations to the school where I found the person who shook my world to the core. I’m not going to see her anymore. Not in the way that was the only one that worked for us. Today was my very last workday there. And I undestood that this was the day I was going to leave her behind. Not that I’m not going to see her at all anymore, we belong to the same social circle still, but outside of school it was always different. She often avoids me, then.

I stood outside the school in the sun and looked down the street, and in the middle of the road, walking up, she came. Blue skirt, black jacket, slowly. I waiting for her. When she came up she looked tense. It’s always like that lately. She looks uncomfortable, and we stare at each other for several seconds, almost no words are said, we smile and chatter on about meaningless things and I look down as if I’m ashamed. I am ashamed. But at the same time she still keeps contacting me, helping me. I think she misses how it used to be.

I tried to communicate that I’m leaving, and that it’s serious. I felt tears coming, but stopped them. I looked at her when she was turning away as if I took my last look at her. She looked foreign. Beautiful, but older than ever. Fat, gray hairs, that weird buzzcut she has now, wrinkles and folds in her skin. I became aware of how stupidly young, skinny and small I was compared to her. How odd we would look together. And she was split in two to me. The part I know, the part that is mine, has a history with me, the object of my fantazies, how she is with me, and then the part that has a life I know little about, what she actually does in her free time, how sophisticated and conventional she is, her clothing and work and everything that makes up her social identity. And I don’t know who she is.

When I first met her, I stood naked before her (metaphorically speaking). Invoulentarily undressed. And she was fully clothed. I thought she was safe. I thought I had seen her before. I had so many hopes for us. I thought that if she just helped me feel safe. If she just smiled, was warm and safe, then I could do it. I could learn to love. Be voulnerable. In disbelief I heard her call my name, I saw her walk towards me, I felt her touch me. I couldn’t believe it, so I waited for more signs. Hoped she would be patient with me. And I tried to be brave, but when I tried to call her name and walk towards her, she turned away. And I thought she saw how ugly I was, or lost respect for me, or something, because I said and did so many awful things. A pathetic man, pathetic lover, not enough, childish, needy, immature. My most voulnerable secret was already out. What means most to me, my greatest trauma and fears, my great tragedy on display for her. She stuck her fingers into a fresh wound, and I let her, because I thought she would help heal it. She pushed it deeper and deeper, and I couldn’t tell if the pain was for good or for worse. I thought she was helping, that her fingers were loving.

I know she didn’t want this responsibility. Resposibility to heal a hurt young man with sexual and emotional complexe and fear of intimacy. But she took it on the deeper she pushed. The more she asked. You know, to have knowlege makes you resposible. That’s how it works, by default. The moment she knew my secrets, it was her resposibility to handle them maturely and with respect. She thought she could know more and more, without the responsibility. She didn’t know that it was devestating to me that she saw that part of me. Because it was. It has plauged me since the very first day. It has driven me to push her away, fear her, dispise her, need her, hate her. Most of all, she didn’t understand how easy it was to help me. Do you know how easy it is to save someone who wants to be saved? It’s damn easy. It takes just a little bit of belief or encouragement. A little nurturing of the vision the person already has of who they can be. It might take one word, one look, a hand movement or a touch. It was all I longed for. One look, one touch. One CLEAR message that said “you are enough, for me”. It would matter the world, because she was enough for me, too. In every woman it’s her I want. In every woman it will always be her I look for. Something like her.

So if she couldn’t give me that one thing, then what am I? Or is it just her that couldn’t give?

Standing outside, right there with her, being unable to express any of the 10 000 things I felt and thought, reminded me of two apocalyptic dreams I’ve had a long time ago. In the first one, I wandered the ruins of this town, and I said “I’m going to call the woman I love”, and I called her. She answered saying she was on her way to Sweden with her family. I knew she was going to die. She said “24 and 9 are important”. I later found out that we are 24 years and 9 months apart. The second dream I stood exactly there in the street with her, and we watched a giant clowing hole in the sky suck in a giant flood full of people and houses, and we knew we were about to die. I kissed her, having nothing to lose, and ran off to save my dog. Meeting her sure was apocalyptic. I get why I dreamed those dreams now. The apocalypse, the distance between us, and the courage to finally confess and move on.

Today she just walked off. Said she needed to work in her office. I went into the bathroom and cried, and decided to just leave. There was nothing I could say to her. We can’t talk anymore. Something stops us from communicating. We can’t. We just look at each other, and the looks are full of pain and confusion and guilt and shame and care. And every time I meet her, I cry. Because I supress everything I want to believe in in me. I just left and cried the 1 hour bussride back home. In my head every loving memory of her passed. The quiet summer days with the filming, the invitation to her home, her flirtatious poses in drawing classes, her performance in the church, the note she left in my book. All of it was gone. Another failed love story. Or was it a success? No. But where all these stories of me and her the encouragement I truly needed? No, but it was the beginning of it, I thought. I remembered how I again and again had just stood there, failed, rejected her, pulled away, been pathetic. I believed in trying again, holding on to the small positive things we had. I felt more loved by her than anyone before her, and it was a shock, and I’m not sure what went wrong.

Give me strenght to rid myself of her ghost.

[anonymouskar]

More concretely addressing trauma and moving on from reenacting negative family relationships (one more step)

I’m getting very very tired. You know, all great romances stem from emotional need. All stem out of some lack, some unresolved insecurity. That is how I ended up where I am now. Her, my dear, beautiful romantic interest.

As I’ve gotten more and more absorbed into trying to make the relationship between me and her work, I’ve grown more and more distant from my mother. At this point, she’s become almost freakishly foreign to me. The thought that I was once her baby is impossible to comprehend. She looks foreign and she has almost no part in my life anymore. I tell her nothing. But this new woman in my life, my teacher, brought back everything that ever hurt in my relationship to my own mom. At first, it started as recognizing a pattern in my relationships and then thinking it was my fault for not being brave enough or good enough, and now lately a lot of painful memories have come back to me. I’ve realized more and more that my relationship with my parents, and especially my mother have been in many ways very very negative and even traumatizing to me. 

When I was a child, it was more in the form of not validating my gender with words and attitudes. I imagine some boys go through that, but not too many. But what was worse, and still makes my guts twist, were all the times when I was given a special kind of look. A glance she gave me when my t-shirt suddenly slipped and displayed my torso, or when I bent forward and she could SEE how maldeveloped I was. It was a look of disgust. I’m not saying she found ME disgusting, but it was very clear to me that my body was assessed sexually, and the way I developed was disgusting. I tried to hide it, but eventually, they saw. I’ll never forget that look. I have since received that very same look from two people. One young male doctor who looked at my crotch after a surgery, and her... the woman I met and fell in love with. She gives me that look, and I know why. It’s because she “knows” what happened to me. She can still see it on my body. And thinking of it makes me want to vomit. I visualize me either chocking her or running away. Another situation I remember very often, was when I was constipated, around age 11, and my parents snuck into my room and stuck a pill up my ass while I was sleeping. Well, I woke up, and I screamed and felt completely intruded. That was their way of “solving the problem”. But still, to this day, that happening haunts me. Never invade a child's private area. Never send them the signal that they can’t contribute in solving their own problem. Never approach an 11-year-olds private area without consent. It should have never happened.

When I acted out, developed selective mutism and different expressions of anxiety, rage and perversions, I was sent to a psychiatrist. What I felt about that was mainly shame. So ashamed that I hid it from my classmates every week, (said I was going to an aunts birthday party, again and again). I understood that it meant that I was “sick”, while really, my acting out was a pretty natural way of coping with the stress of not being seen, heard, accepted and understood for who I truly was. I don’t think children can have mental problems. I think they can have situations and relations that are not nurturing and validating them.

My brother (and perhaps it’s a curse for him as well) who had a normal sexual development has now turned into my mothers' surrogate husband. To be in the same room as them is like being the third wheel in a teenage romance. The way she constantly expresses how attractive she thinks he is, flirtatious, lots of physical contact, wanting to impress him. Their relationship is certainly flavoured with incest-like emotions. My father has become very passive, shy and isolated in the last 10 years. He used to be outgoing and brave. It’s pretty obvious that my mother has no respect for him and is no longer attracted to him. My brother surpassed him in his teens. While I was abnormal and completely disregarded. When we three are in a room, you can be sure they don’t even notice I’m there, and if they do I will be the subject of ridicule and jokes.

My romantic feelings, my desires for this woman that I met, it was an attempt at mending my relationship with my mother. Can I not be disgusting to her? Can I be loved as an attractive man? Can I be who I truly need to be, with her?. That was all. She reminded me of everything I liked about my mother, and everything I wish she was. She was sensual, emotional, dominating, intellectually inclined, raw humour, a thick body, pointy nose, sometimes rude. But she also came across as open and nurturing. So that was it. I tried my best to be that man, while I was also ultimately vulnerable to her. And for a while, it really worked. Sometimes I could see through her that I was an attractive man, that I was worthy. Sometimes I was adored. But it turned more and negative. I kept being afraid of expressing myself, in fear of rejection. What is interesting is that every time I could sense that she was attracted to me, I completely froze. I didn’t believe it while it was happening. It was SOOO hard for me to believe that it was real, that I froze and waited for her to give me more “proof”. There was an extreme oscillation between a son-mother and man-woman relationship. I desired equally to be in them both.

She betrayed me on multiple occasions. Most of all when she asked me “what about sex?”, as if I obviously wasn’t functioning like any other man, and as if she didn’t take my interest in her the least bit seriously. It was a completely perversely curious question from her side. She “just had to know”. Every time I think of that I get mad at her and wish to never meet her again.

I still like her for so many things. There are qualities in her that I love, deep things in her that I love, and will always love. I want her to be the best that she can be, I want her to be as real and intelligent and beautiful as she can, but she hurt me too bad. She was egotistical, insensitive and rude. She didn’t respect me enough. And it maybe wasn’t my fault. This happened not because I wasn’t worthy of more, but because I’ve been hurt, and some part of me is attempting to fix the hurt. Some part of me is perverted and reenacts everything painful that happened to me, because it’s attempting to set it right.

Well, my next step is to realize that I can choose to not get into those situations. I can recognize them and walk away. I can surround myself with people who believe in me as an attractive, sexually confident, respectworthy man. And when I do, I will be able to heal. It will take time, I will cry a lot more, I will remember what happened to me, I will need someone who listens without judgement.

As I have realized this, something interesting happened. I had the first erotic dream about another woman (even my age!) in a loooong time. I also flirted with and WAS flirted with by some women, and I felt like I could start over.

[anonymouskar]

Grief, crying and healing trauma

The last six months I graduated and moved on my own for the first time. I knew this would trigger a lot of anxieties and loneliness, but I knew I couldn’t move back with my parents. I knew I had to face these new difficulties to learn to take responsibility for myself, to grow up.

The great theme of this period hasn’t been my activities and learned skills though. It has been facing myself, fully. And people ask me how I’m doing, and in fact, I think I’m living through the second most difficult period of my life, and a very painful time, but I think it’s for the better. Something I’ve been VERY concerned with these last months is my past. What happened to me, how people hurt me, and how it is affecting me now. I’ve looked into psychology, philosophy, and spirituality. Especially Carl Jung has resonated with me, because I already intuitively knew that all my “problems” and dysfunctions were acted out by myself, subconsciously. And these “patterns” have revealed themselves through my imagination, fantasies as well as my actions and their results.

I’m about to describe to you something extremely powerful that happened to me a few months back. I might have already described it, but I now see it more clearly. There were a few weeks when I was without work and I barely left the house. I don’t really know how I spent my days, but I was on my computer a lot. But then one day I had a working day. My first, in a new place, and the people there were terrible. Arrogant, condescending and rude. It triggered in me feelings of not living up to who I could be, suppressing myself. It sent me home crying. I actually left work early, on my first day, which wasn’t popular. If I hadn’t, I would have collapsed on the floor sobbing, probably.

All the way home I cried, and when I came home and hit the bed, I sobbed more violently than I ever have - since I was a child. I completely broke down. I had to cry into my pillow so that my neighbors wouldn’t hear. Some anguished sounds and moans came out of me that completely shocked me. I screamed or moaned into the pillow until I had no breath left, then I took a few huge breaths and it came again. It was like vomit. It just came out. I held onto my rolled up sheets, I rolled around, pressed my open mouth into the pillow, moaned again and let spit and tears just come out. But while this was happening, and I obviously was in despair, it was like I was split into two. Above the crying me was another me who was calm and looked over me with care. The sounds I made reminded me of an infants cry, and I in many ways felt like a small child again. The higher me felt a profound love for myself, and I kept repeating in my head “I’m crying because I love myself”. The reason I was in pain was that I actually did care for myself, I concluded.

It was a cry in grief. I grieved the parts of me that were hurt, I let out the most potent feelings of anger and fear in me, that were probably years old. I was healing trauma. I was reconnecting and sympathizing with the child-me that I really had cut off. I was seeing my trauma clearly. And my trauma wasn’t a specific event, but a long-lasting attitude to me by my parents, the loneliness, abandonment and anger I had felt for years in my childhood. Jealousy of my brother, how I was not listened to, how I was made fun of, how they had expectations of me that were completely opposite of how I expressed myself. These are the things I’m still going through. I thought I grieved the present, but I was grieving for my entire life. As if time was an illusion and my entire life melted into a few core truths. A me that was hurt, and a me that loved myself.

When this was over, I think I was changed. I was more healed, probably. Smaller episodes of similar crying have happened to me since, and I recently reached a point where I actually imagined and desired to make peace with my brother. Clearly, that is heading in the right direction.

So all in all. I don’t know why this happened to me. Why I have so much trouble moving on, and why I was hurt so badly, but I clearly was. I was a very sensitive child, extremely empathic to all living things, imaginative, but fundamentally misunderstood. All my childhood I tried desperately to express who I was, but I was ridiculed for it. Obviously, that has devastating effects on a child. Key parts of me weren’t validated. My masculinity, my sexuality.

Truly learning something is always painful. Attaining wisdom is painful. So, if you are in pain, out there. If you are crying and it hurts, I think you are learning and healing. You are reconnecting with the you that is hurting. You should try and remember what happened to you, empathize with yourself in the past and present.

So the lonely road I’m walking is not the road of the artist - that’s not a lonely road at all. The road I’m walking is the road of healing trauma, saving myself, which almost nobody will walk. I can’t relate even to the “outcasts” of the art community, because even they won’t touch this.

[anonymouskar]

Believe it or not, I installed a dating app

One night recently I couldn’t sleep. I thought myself into dark depths. I felt out how I have a fundamental fear of life. Fear of both success and failure. As if I’m not made for life. I thought about how clumsy and self-sabotaging I am, how I keep failing with the woman I like, how I’m always on the verge of bitterness and hate. How I’m again and again unable to stop myself from acting out the same painful mistakes. But then I remembered what I have been able to do. How I can be. I was attractive to some women, and I handled it with elegance. And some men admire me, and I inspired them. I managed to be someone. So why did I have an understanding of my value then, but less and less now? Where is my healthy ego?

Well, I concluded that it was broken down every time I suppressed myself. When I meet her and I talk of only superficial things, tease her cowardly without daring to meet her eyes because I’m afraid of the tension I feel like I can’t master. So I suppress how I really want to look at her with passion, grab her shoulders. Convey to her that I’m attracted to her. Own that I am a sexual man with interest in her. Instead, I look away, and I feel how she becomes uninterested, loses respect, gets uncomfortable. And I sacrifice this ONLY to prolong my time with her, in hopes of just small moments of closeness. And then I go to work, and I don’t share my opinions, I swallow nervously in the middle of my sentences, my hands shake, and I see my colleagues looks with traces of disgust. 

There are the situations that send me home crying. Feeling like I can’t BE who I want to be, and know I can be, if only I understood my value. These are the situations that have broken me down, eroded my ego.

Then I thought of the brave, strong and elegant me, which is also real. I have been that me, many times. That me is real, but it needs strengthening. I have to tell myself that that is real, not just in words, but in action. You can only express your belief in action, not word.

So, I installed a dating-app. Put some decent pictures of myself on there, actually got a match within 24 hours. But I have no interest in the women on there. I dislike the whole notion of judging someone in seconds based on pictures. I’m not on there because I’m looking for love or sex. I’m there because it marks my attitude to myself as open and worthy of love. The act of being the judge, being the one thinking “do I like this woman?”, instead of “omg, does she like me?”, is very good for me. I’m coming from a place of security. And I can sit there and express my sexuality. It’s a start, to something. The days after I got it I felt AMAZING.

[anonymouskar]

She crushed my heart two days ago. Surprise, the story won’t ever end.

I was alone in some former teachers house, who wasn’t home. Basically I live there a few days at a time and do renovation work. I was done for the day, sat down and read, felt like I was starting to be in a new place in my life. Then I got a message, from her.

“Now its my turn to ask for a favour, can you be my advisor in a situation at school? I’ll call you in an hour.”

I immidiatly started to wonder what the hell I could be an authority on, that she had to ask me. OR did she just want to ask me, regardless, just because she could. I understood that she was at least partially motivated by making me feel good and important to her, have me in her life, whatever purpose I serve. 

She called, and the thing I feared most came up. Some “queer” ftm whatever people refused to have drawing classes with her because the nude model was a woman. Appearently they can’t see naked women because that reminds them of their own bodies. (ironically the date each other). She wondered if it was reasonable of her to not sympathise with them. If I sympathised with them. If there was something here she didn’t understand, but I did because... I was a little like them? What I computed was “oh no.. she thinks I’m a little like them. When this came up, she linked that to me.” I did not sypathise with them. I doubt I have anything in common with them at all. I’m just a man. I had some deformaties, but they are soon fixed.

She revealed to be that I’m not a man to her. I’m something else. Yet she knows nothing about how I work. I live my life and to everyone I’m just a man, and that’s how it should be. They naturally assume I can do all the things a man can do, and that is how it should be NOT because I want it to be, but because it IS.

I tried to express how I didn’t like that she thought these things about me in a follow up message. The conversation went along. She thought I should accept people knowing things about my body, that it would be better for me. I explained how I’m really just a normal man, that there is no need to point out something was different about me. It’s not relevant anymore. I said I’m normal, I function. I concluded that. Didn’t want us to talk about it anymore.

Then out of nowhere, when I had just tried to end the topic, this question came of of nowhere (or, out of her stupid mind):

“What about sex?”

I took an hour to respond. I felt sick, but above else raging. I’m really never angry. But this was it. How dare she ask that, without an apology even. Implied in that question were her speculations, her attitued towards me, something she had thought about for a loooong time, and now finally saw the oppertunity to ask about. She could have written the following, and it would have been just the same: “I’ve been wondering, how can you have sex? How does sex work for you when you aren’t ‘normal’, when you aren’t like other men? Surely you can’t do what other men can. Are you sexually active?” And not just that. She was asking me this as my object of desire. She must know I wanted to have sex with her. Still want.

I decided it was better if I yet again explained to her that I can do what other men can do. How graphic should I even go? I always thought she imagined me like the young man I am. I hoped she maybe had a few innocent fantasies of me doing her, or something like that. It was important for me to be just a guy. Have her lust or not lust for me as the young man I am. I was so deeply hurt. Couldn’t sleep or eat the day after. After it all, maybe I wasn’t sexually a man to her anyways... she just likes me around because I give her attention. I’m her child, in need of help. Fuck her. Is sex that important to her, anyways? She has though about me performing as sexually abnormal for a looong time. Imagined how it would work. I thought I was on my way to meeting a woman for the first time as an attractive, sexual young man. I really believed in that. I needed validation for that. And she failed me, because she’s an insensitive, horny, disrespectful old whore. Goes around with her stupid flirty voice, talk to men, sense how they want her, thrives in it, thinks about cocks, wants men to fuck her, feel feminine in their embrace. Fuck her. This is angry-me talking.

I asked her “do you ask out of curiosity”

She said “Yes, OR NO, I’m asking because I care and I want you to be well.”

That is such fucking bullshit. She asked because she was curious. Lying to me. Fucking lying to me. And revealing to me everything I feared most, and she said wasn’t true. It was true after all. I wanted to cut her out of my life, but as I write this, I just talked to her and she smiled and says she want’s to teach me about the echonomy of being an artist. She didn’t even realize she hurt me. Just like my mother. In the exact same way. I’m her sick child. They can’t see me as someone functional, while I desperatly try to see myself that way, because I know I can be.

[anonymouskar]

Why am I so obsessed?

That’s what I have been asking myself, and probably a lot of my friends as well. Why am I so absolutely obsessed with this romance-type thing I fell into, and with that woman. It’s really not about her either, I barely talk to her lately, but she is still my reference point for all contemplation about who I was, am and can be, what other people are to me, my fantasies, my masculinity. Everything I “say” onto the world, in my head, I speak as if I speak to her. Every question I ask the world, I ask her. Like I’m in a dialog with an imaginary perfect compliment to myself - which is her.

No exterior structure in life These last few months have been extremely hard, and extremely rewarding. I’ve never felt more anxiety, loneliness or confusion before. My life has been without exterior structure. What I earn in a month is completely unpredictable. I don’t know month to month if I will be able to pay bills. I don’t know how much I can spend on myself. I don’t have a social circle. I sporadically meet up with old acquaintances, mostly just to stay sane. I get some spree jobs, live wherever work is (As I type this I’m in a teachers’ house, I renovate her basement, and I temporarily live here), and in some periods I don’t even go outside my apartment. I also am completely unsure of where to go next year, I just know I need to move away from my family. This lack of structure means that my only constant is - me. That’s what I have. But what kind of structure is that? I have become extremely aware of my own relationship with me. My days literally revolve around my feelings, states of mind and ideas. I have all day to contemplate, paint, write. I suffer, and I dance, and I feel.

I’ve realized that I am 100%, overwhelmingly dedicated to understanding and healing myself. No more, no less. That is my obsession. The only thing I can and want to do. That’s what I’m really obsessed with. I talk about who she is, the woman I fell for, because she reveals so endlessly much about me. Why did I fall for someone like her? Really, I’ve been in a therapeutic relationship with her. We were never friends. We somehow just automatically were vulnerable, fascinated, and wonderfully confused with each other. We projected everything we needed onto each other, and now I understand why. We didn’t really have fun, weren’t companions, didn’t share values. We just met and saw ourselves like we needed to be. In her, I felt like I could become what I needed myself to be. Because she was like an adopted mother for me.. I longed for her to nurture me, to give birth to me again. To hold me and love me into the world. I needed her to give me what my mother didn’t. She took me as her son. Something intimate arose. We were sexual. Sexual because she was my ultimate woman-figure. My ultimate mother, what I came from and what I felt destined to reunite with. And she saw in me a boy who had the potential to become a man. And she loved that. This story isn’t new. It happens to a lot of young men and older women. You know what I’ve concluded she is? Adjusted. That’s it. I want to ask her “why do you paint?”, “why did you want to be an artist?”. Even though I know she would answer dishonestly. Isn’t there an inherent narcissism in making art? I think so. I mean that for myself as well, but most of all for people who aren’t honest in their art. I paint to understand myself. Save myself, see myself. I know now why I wasn’t seen as a child. But what about her? Such an adjusted, productive, open, respected woman, why does she paint her own face over and over and over? What is her mystery? Why does she paint?

It’s insane to me how people can just enter relationships, break up, move, cry, go to family gatherings, have sex, just like that. Like it’s just a part of living. As if those things don’t mean 1000 things. It’s like they don’t have a pending mystery upon themselves. Sure, they are terrified and lonely and all that, but they live. There seems to be no mystery to them. No process of violent unfolding. How come I am so obsessed, dedicated to my inner workings only. Why does a beautiful woman, flirting, money and fun mean nothing to me? Why can’t I just enjoy? It’s not that I don’t want to enjoy, I just don’t feel any meaning if I’m not on my ultimate journey into myself. That serious, painful but fantastic journey. Why have a pretty and sexy girlfriend when I could only really see who I was in that married, awkward 47-year old? Why earn money if I could only paint and write when I didn’t have that earning job? Why enjoy simplicity, when I could suffer with ecstatic meaning? And why is that how I feel?

I still want someone who can mirror me back to me. I want someone who I could heal myself with. I want someone to be intimate with so that I could resolve my intimacy issues. I always wanted to experience life, you know. I never wanted to be just me. I wanted to overcome myself, extend into the world. Grow up and live. 

[anonymouskar]

Suddenly I found myself starting to write a book about this romance story with my teacher (if it even is that). I got an overwhealming urge one day, and since then I’ve written on it almost every day. Some days for hours. So far I’m about 80 pages in, and I don’t expect it to be more than 150. I’ve planned the format, downloaded a nice font, drawn an opening illustration and I plan on physically binding the book with quality paper. It seems to be almost a neccecity for me. The most meaningful way I can use all my thoughts and effort. I want to do it, most importantly.

Since I confessed I’ve met her a few times. A collection of strange things have happened. I go to her drawing classes, still. Last session we didn’t have a model in, so we had to model for each other, which she also did. When it was my turn she asked me to do two poses. When it was her turn she did three. She was wearing a very tight dress. Each of the poses were facing me directly, and they were teasing. Arching back, chest and breasts out. She didn’t look me in the eyes, though. She looked right over my head. And she turned me on. My drawings of her didn’t turn out well. She let my eyes go up and down her body, and she liked it. That’s what happened. I guess she likes my attention. She was very quiet, lost in thoughts and formal that day. Weird. A week after, I woke up to a message from her asking if I came again. I was somewhere else.

Anyway, back to the book. I’m obviously doing it in my native language. But I was thinking of posting the introduction here, as well. It could actually help me formulate it better as I have to translate and put more effort into the main points.

[anonymouskar]

What I planned to read to her, face to face

I think the right thing is to tell you the truth. You have probably suspected I have strong feelings for you. So now I’ m telling you that I really like you - in THAT way. I’ve been in love with you for long, now.

It wasn’t supposed to be this serious and heavy, between us. I regret so much of things I have said and done that made me weak, because it hurt so much that you - who I longed for belonging and closeness to, that you - who disturbed me, lifted me, made me happy - didn’t see who I COULD be.

I wanted closeness, intimacy, and just smiles and joy. I wanted to experience love, with you. I wanted to love, and I think I did, just a little bit. Because you smiled back, in such a way that.. You came back, after everything. I could see you enjoy me.

Don’t think you’ve made mistakes by listening to me, smiling at me, inviting me into you. I’ve learned so much, I’ve seen so much beauty. I was filled with one of the most powerful things I have - hope. Hope for the man I can be, if I’m strong enough, secure enough, brave enough. Some of my life's greatest achievements and joys, I have with you, because I felt like I could be loved, by someone like you.

Now I’m willing to lose. I want to free myself. Let this be a story. It is a story, my first love story. And I hope you can have patience and respect for this confession that I had to do. I know we can have a good time, again. I don’t need anything from you, I just longed for love, with you. We can still talk about the world, life, art, and people. We can greet each other with warm smiles, speak well of each other, enjoy each other and lift each other.

So there’s that. I free myself from the pain, and tell you that you are so beautiful to me, that I became beautiful also.

[anonymouskar]

My love story continues, and I finally did it - I confessed. So a long and dramatic finale coming under here.

It was this last Friday it started. I was on my way, still during the festival, to draw another performance. It was raining heavily and there were ice cold strong winds. The snow has crept down to about 800 m now, it’s only 8-9 degrees during the day. And if you are outside, you are wet. Umbrellas can’t be used in this town either. In every single trash can was a broken umbrella, probably after tourists. The wind breaks them after seconds or minutes outside.

The concert was fully booked, and as I wasn’t a paying customer, I couldn’t get in. In the windows, I could see her and her husband. I had felt like I was about to cry the entire day, and I started to when I saw that. And I also started to bleed from my nose, like I do every single winter when my skin gets dry and cracks. So I wanted to be alone. I walked up into the park and sat down on a bench waiting for the bleeding to go away, while I cried for all the reasons there are to cry about life. Feeling scared, not confident, broken-hearted, my past, things like that. I just couldn’t stop. It was one of those days.

I bled a red pond in front of the bench. My face was red, too. So I tried to wash it with some rainwater and used a sheet of paper to cover my face, as I walked to the other side of town to wash myself in the private bathroom in the school. I cried all the time and felt so so alone. I longed for someone to see my pain and support me. I knew I just needed a little push, just a few comforting words. So I started to compose a short message to her. “Do you want to come out into the park after the concert? I need a friend tonight.”.

I walked back to the park, the same bench, and waited and cried. I guy walked past me and saw my blood pond and asked if I was okay. I said I had bled from my nose, even though my face didn’t look like that. He left. I cried, and my entire body was shaking from being cold. I waited and waited for an answer from her. I imagined seeing her come into the park and towards me, and what I would say, and what she would say. Fucking miserable, wet, ice cold, shaking and crying, over a red stain on the ground.

After 40 minutes she answered. “I’m here with my parents. We are driving home now. Can I call you?”. She was worried, but couldn’t leave. I half regretted sending the message. I replied “sure..”. And she said she would call in about 30 minutes. In the meantime, I walked home and finally stopped crying. I was just cold and exhausted in bed, like I didn’t care and had nothing more to give. She called. I answered with a depressed hallo. We talked about how I operate, how life is and can be, she used people we know as examples, I shared things I didn’t want to share. We laughed, she told me stories. Her voice was so soft and light, and mine so deep and strong. But I was weak, in my bed. I asked for a helping hand when I was at my lowest, and I asked her. At one point I said “T, I really love you” (BUT, in my language there is a way to say friendly ‘I love you’, which means more like ‘I care for you and like you’, and then there’s a romantic ‘I love you’. I said the friendly one). She didn’t answer back, but said things like “I really care for you”, “I keep an eye on you”. It was supposed to express the same things, but not as open to interpretation as what I said was. When we hung up she sent me a picture of her cat which she had in her room, and I didn’t go to sleep happy and content. I felt like she was taking care of me and worrying about me. Like I was weak and pathetic. Like a sick child.

The next morning I met her at the morning poetry reading, I was very well dressed and sat with a guy I barely knew. She came in, gave me a fantastically caring smile, touched my shoulder and sat down next to me. When the reading started I stood with my drawing pad, over her. She was absolutely beautiful. We talked, after that. I attempted to thank her for calling me the night before. And I reminded her that the sad and desperate me is just one small layer of me. I can be brave, strong and supporting too. She said she knew, she has seen me like that, and in so many other ways. She said something I would never forget. “I’m worried you are leaning too much on me. It’s like you are asking me something I can’t give you. I don’t really understand what it is you are asking of me. If you are that sad, you shouldn’t come to me, I have my limits. Maybe you should see a doctor or something.”. I appreciated how fearless she was in telling me how she felt. That’s what is useful. It shocked me though. I understood that she feels too pushed, and even choked by me. But I don’t have a clue why. Since I was at her house I have kept my distance, I have rarely initiated any contact without practical reasons. I don’t understand why she feels like that. I reassured her I was not asking for help, and I had seen doctors, who said I was dealing with life so well that it was unnecessary for me to keep seeing a psychologist. I was reaching out to a friend, like is pretty normal for friends to do. So, she didn’t consider me a friend? Then why ask me to her house as soon as I wasn’t her student anymore? How have I pushed her since SHE invited me to her?

Well, for the rest of the day we hung out a lot, as we were going to the same shows, but I made damn sure to talk to every person I saw that I knew, even if just barely, independently of her. At one point she asked to sit next to me, and when we laughed we looked at each other and smiled, she whispered small remarks and information to me, and I could feel her body heat. She even followed my movements. When I crossed my arms, she did. When I sat forward, she did. Classical subconscious “I like you” signals. I thought - this is how it should be, forever. But it can’t be. I’m as happy now as I can be, but I will always want that real intimacy and belonging. This is my beautiful illusion of “us”.

We went to the last show of the day. A spectacular theatre performance inside some caves in the mountain. It was a love drama. I did a couple more drawings, and then a massive flow of bravery and peace came over me. I suddenly had an overwhelming need to confess to her, and felt like I was in the right mindset. She sat across the cave from me with a white hat. She looked like she does in photos, and not like she looks to me. She looked like I think everyone else sees her, foreign. Narrower eyes, smaller nose, wider face. I wrote down what I wanted to say, and after the show ended, and I caught up with her on our way out of the cave, I said “Can I talk to you, right now? I need 5, 10 minutes. Just a moment. Can you give me 5 minutes?” “I need to talk to you, just briefly, right here”. And inside she was probably like “oh no... he needs me again.. I can’t do this”. But she said she had to go, her son was waiting outside, they were supposed to be somewhere. She could barely look at me. “Can I meet you tomorrow? I just need a moment, tomorrow? When can I see you, tomorrow?”. “I’m here by the caves around 14:00 tomorrow″

14:00 the next day was when I would confess. I really insisted because I knew it had to happen. I was pushing myself as hard as her. I could have nothing stand in my way of doing it. I knew I had to do it - now. For the first time, there were 1000 reasons to put it off, but 1001 reasons to do it the next day. Reasons to do it - I knew it would raise my self-esteem to be able to communicate what I wanted with the risk of losing it. - I knew I could do it with strength and maturity - I was sick of the never-ending disappointments - I was sick of feeling jealous and resentful - I was sick of investing my entire sense of worth in her response to me - I felt like my other friendships were strong enough so that I would have support if she ghosted me - Opening up to other women. Reasons not to do it - Fear of us being awkward ever after - HUGE fear of her never wanting to speak, smile or be good to me ever again - Risk of giving up on anything that COULD potentially happen (there is no escaping that if I kept at it for many more months and years it could very well end up being a proper romance). - Risk of losing her friendship.

I was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. Before I went to sleep, I wrote down exactly what I wanted to say the next day. And I read it out loud again and again while I tried not to cry. (I posted what I wrote independently.) The next day I decided not to read it though... as it felt too dramatic. I wanted to just be frank and say I like you with a smile, and then clarify a little and leave her to think about it.

I spent hours collecting myself and waiting for that 14:00. They were some of the most anticipatory intense hours of my life. It felt like I was about to go into massive surgery, freely. Like I was about to do the last thing I wanted on earth because I hoped what was on the other side was better. I was about to kill a huge part of my life. I was about to face the dragon. I periodically cried, needed to sit down, go into the bathroom to look at my face, watch videos on youtube about confessing, videos on how to be a man.

At 14:10 I started walking to the caves. I cried more and more and started to imagine her reaction. She would look absolutely shocked and like she wanted to leave this world. She would have been the most uncomfortable person alive. She would have stared into the distance, completely tense, not saying anything, wishing me gone with every fiber of her being because I demanded her response, and she wouldn’t know how to respond, and she would be extremely extremely anxious. I know her that well. So halfway, I decided to text her instead. I wrote “T, I’m in love with you. I promised to tell you now in September. You probably have suspected it for a while. I just wanted to tell you, so that I can move on, let go. I wanted to tell you face to face. Don’t know where you are right now.”

I walked back to the festival headquarters and sat there for two hours, exhausted. I was now at the stage of the fight. Under enormous stress. I couldn’t eat, talk, walk or anything. I just sat alone on a sofa and looked at the ceiling, walls, doors. I really had no expectations for her answer. It could be a flat rejection and it wouldn’t change much. Because I was totally prepared to risk that. I had made my sacrifice. I kept thinking through what the sacrifice could look like, worst case scenario, so that I would be prepared. All I know is that I NEEDED an answer. Even just an “ok”. I just needed to know she had read it. After those two hours, I got the following message: “ Dear [my name], I have had some suspicions about something, without really knowing what. You are strong and brave for telling, but I’m glad you didn’t do it face to face. It’s not easy to know how one should respond, you know?”

In other words, she tried to write the vaguest message ever that confirmed she understood, took it seriously, and kind of rejected me. I answered back that we could still talk like normal, I wanted things to be just fine, and she shouldn’t take it very seriously and heavy. I said it was a beautiful thing, really, and we are just people, and these things happen. I also told her to not think she has ever done something with me she shouldn’t have. She never replied to that. I felt fucking fantastic. I had lots of fun with the festival administration, was at a late night party, danced when I got home and felt born again and free. I knew that if I met her I would just warmly smile and feel okay again. Like I was past her judgment of me, but still so fond of her. I felt fantastic. And for some reason, an image of her crying alone in a car kept showing up in my mind. As if she had taken my place of rejection and despair. Like I was the one to make her cry now, and not in a triumphant way. In a way that made me want to comfort her and say that everything is okay now. I am free, and you too.

Since then (two days have passed). I’ve had a great time, but after listening to some old songs and getting a message from her inviting me to this weeks drawing class (her way of saying she is all okay with seeing me, she doesn’t dread it), I’ve felt a little bit in love again. I just couldn’t stop myself from imagining her face and body. I actively tried to stop my imagination, even though it made me happy to feel those things. Let's see how I do from now on. I’m maaaybe going to drawing class, but the only reason to go is to see her, and I don’t know. I’m supposed to move on. I probably shouldn’t. I feel fantastic.

[anonymouskar]

I recently deleted all of my pictures of her from my computer, after passing her outside one day. I looked like she pretended not to see me. I felt so hurt and rejected that I felt done. But never completely done. I was unable to delete the written documents about her, so I moved them over on a memory stick so that they were off my computer.

By coincidence, I got involved in a local theatre/art festival before the past weekend. Half the artists in the town are involved. Obviously her as well. She’s doing the scenography for one of the plays, and she knows the manager. So “rumours” (spread by my crush) spread that I’m a talented illustrator, and I ended up as the festival illustrator in exchange for free passes on everything. I draw quick sketches from the performances and stuff. So that means I’m involved in a thing with her, again, and expect to see her around pretty regularly. Yesterday I was on my first mission, and behold, I saw her husband, and he was keeping an eye on me. He stood with all his artist friends, with his dumb hat, goat-like beard and huge dark eyes. My impression was that he looked at me to figure me out. Who I was, if I was watching him back, if I looked friendly, what I was doing there. I tried my best to look concentrated and busy while I looked for her. She never came, and I forgot about them and did my drawing.

Later, everyone walked to the next show, and I was given the best spot in a tiny but beautiful theatre. Up on a balcony, right in the centre. I kept looking for her. I looked down at all the people, hoping to spot a buzzed, brown head of hair. Nothing. The lights went out, I started to draw. The show was about an American dancing competition with a group of couples dancing as long as they could, while dramas went on between them. Kind of silly. But some of it quite gripping. I guess it was a musical. (as I write this I’m actually sitting in the room next to hers in school. I’m in the kitchen, and she just came in, grabbed a cup of coffee and left, quickly) I glance towards the balcony to the far right of the theatre, and there she is. My heart beat very hard one time, and an electric tingling went from it and out into my hands and feel. I thought “oh shit, do I still react like this when I see her?”

She sat next to her husband. I saw both of their faces in profile. The room was dark, blue, and with different types of 60s music constantly going. After I discovered her, I couldn’t get myself to draw anymore. I constantly glanced over at her, and all kinds of thoughts and feelings passed through me. I felt disgusted by seeing them, confused about who she really was. I watched her movements, those I know so damn well. She couldn’t sit still. Hands always touching her face, leaning back, leaning forward, tense jaw. Just tense, that was what she was. She looked funny. Her pointy, straight nose, the upper lip sticking forward, her flat cheeks. She a mother, a wife, a damn mother. And her husband, with his small and high nose, bold, he fucked her. She let him fuck her, again and again, until she had babies. And I know her well, I met her and now I know her. And to me... I’ve pictured her in my bed, I have seen her in my head - as mine, so many times. After a short break, she had gotten herself some peanuts and bear. Of course. Her husband had nothing. One single time, during an applause, I briefly met her eyes. She never ever looked in my direction, except for then. I understood that she probably had known all along exactly where I sat, and deliberately never looked at me.

There was an after party and I helped with rearranging the chairs to make a dance floor. I then sat down in the darkest corner and watched to see if they came down and if she would even greet me. I saw her in conversation in the hallway. She never came in, and I knew absolutely nobody else there. Decided to leave. And that was it. Better focus on my drawing and I don’t know.. maybe it’s over, forever. Maybe her husband knows, maybe they talk about it.

[anonymouskar]

I haven’t been on here for a while. School ended, my work there ended, all my friends moved away, and I moved into a new apartment further away from town and am now looking for work. Boring things like that. I spend my days writing applications for jobs I don’t want, painting, working out, eating, taking walks and watching movies. Alternating just these few things. At times I’m so lonely that I cry, other times I’m dancing in appreciation of my total freedom.

It was brought to my attention that what I have written here about my crush, or whatever to call her, actually is quite beautiful. I had completely forgotten what I wrote, and how I wrote it. I just re-read it, and relived some of my most beautiful moments while doing so. Maybe I actually should write something to her. Translate it all to my native language, and just give it all to her. I don’t think I have anything to lose anymore. I have planned to confess soon, anyways. The right moment just never arrives.

Well, if you care to know the rest of the story, here it is:

Since I last posted I was actually invited to her house. I was in the bathroom at home when I got a message “do you want to come over tomorrow? I’m not ready to paint yet, we can just chat”. I said I had work tomorrow. We continued chatting like we never really had before. She’s a sukcer for elegant writing. Teasing, creative writing. I sent her images of my plants, we made pretend plans for a future art school of hers, I really gripped her in conversation. I knew she was smiling at the other end. But I had work the next day, and I was leaving for a festival right after work. So the next day I was at work told to replant some flowers and clean out all the trash. I worked faster than ever, because I secretly had planned to ask for the rest of the day off. And it paid off. I ran home, put on my best clothes, tried to pump myself up by doing a brief workout, and I was off to the island where she lives. I felt completely relaxed, actually. I had all dark, almost black clothes on.

I met her around a corner, heading to her house, behind a bush. She looked surprised as if I didn’t look exactly as she expected. We awkwardly moved close to each other, unsure if we should hug or what. We didn’t. She was dressed in almost all white, a complete contrast to me. White old-woman-like clothes with flowers on them, loose, light clothes. We immediately walked to her studio, just meters away from her house. She told me it was the old school she went to as a child. It was an art nouveau house, like in the city, tall and narrow. She spoke about plans she had for it, what the rooms were, things like that. There was a beautiful tension between us. How our eyes met, the tone in her voice. We went into her studio, which looked very much like I imagined. A big, square room, very organized, portraits, and mostly self-portraits everywhere. Pieces of clothing, books, an impressive cd collection, sketches. Her room, her world. Exactly like I expected it. Smelled like lavender. We walked around there a little, she still had things to show me. Old paintings, new ones she was working on then. They were tiny. 9 x 9 cm I think. Or was it 11 x 11. She told me her ideas, I tried to connect the different motifs and extract some kind of theme or concept, but couldn’t. I don’t understand why she paints what she paints. It’s all wonderfully strange, to me. Standing close to her, hearing how softly she spoke, feeling how feminine she was, and how excited she was to have me there made my heart go crazy. It felt like I was almost “there”. A few moments from holding her gaze a little longer, touching her. Like it could happen at any moment. Like we were both just waiting for it. But I didn’t want it to come across like I had just come for that.. or I don’t know. I was scared shitless that she would have rejected me and never want to see me again, maybe.

We sat down and started talking. About school, about her vacation, and then about ethics and politics. For some reason, I had a strong need to talk with power and conviction about all sorts of things. And it didn’t seem to fall right with her. I wasn’t soft and tender, I wanted to show strength, masculinity. Well, that didn’t last long, because suddenly a tall, dark man just stood in the doorway. Her giant son. Probably weighing twice myself, strong bushy beard, beautiful brown eyes like his mother, and an impressively done hair. Complete silence. An absurd situation. He awkwardly approached me and I tried to take the lead and joke and smile while I shook his hand. He was so shy he didn’t know what to say. I barely understood a word anyways, because he mumbled. He just sat down there in the room and started to draw while he listened to our conversation which now had totally lost all tension. What I was witnessing was to me absolutely absurd. The way she spoke to him, like he was her little, special boy. That man who was so much more masculine than me. Her son. A man she has carried in her body, given birth to, held in her hands while she kissed her husband, raised. I could see it all pass before me. Their story. And he who spoke to the woman I love as his mother. HIS. The comfort an ownership, like they live together. They do. And there I was. To him, a total stranger his mother had just decided to invite over, whom she has spoken about, whom she really likes. Of course, it was threatening to him. Even if he didn’t consciously realize, he resented me, wanted me gone, could sense I was flirting with his mother. I was ashamed. Ashamed because I would have hated it too, if I was him. But there I was, in love.

She left to go to the bathroom. She left me and her son alone in her studio. The first thing he asked me was my age, of course. I was one year older than him. The shame I felt as I said 22.. I complimented his beard, and his response told me he couldn’t stand me. He embraced my compliment, it was my attempt at saying “I’m no threat to you”, and he did not return any kindness. He just took it and felt calmer. She came back, that silly woman, happy that we were “talking”, probably hoping we would make friends.. silly woman, typical mothers.. But someone had broken the trash can in the bathroom. She told us. Both me and him had recently used it. We were both suddenly suspects in having had a moment of destructive rage in there. I honestly hadn’t even seen it when I was there, but I pretended to have. I don’t know why. He hadn’t seen it either. But probably to avoid accusing me, she directed her questioning to her son, and I felt like she humiliated him in front of me. “Have you been a naughty boy and destroyed it in rage, son?”. I felt sorry for him, but was more scared of her thinking it was me. So, suddenly everything was awkward. She wanted to go eat at her house, and as we walked through the beautiful field, outside (her son refused to join us, probably in spite) I felt how the tension was all gone. It was back to mechanical, awkward mode. Walking towards her green, pretty little home with the perfect view towards islands, fjords and mountains.

Inside I immediately met her husband. I firmly shook his hand and greeted him with respect, but not submission. He is bold, with protruding brown eyes, a cold look, very elegant and formal. Not at all like my father. Their house was extremely clean, cosy and professionally decorated. Every wall with a calming colour, everything matching perfectly. Perfect. Not at all like my home. They tried showing me some drawings he was working on. I was not impressed. It was a few sterile drawings of some rocks, the same damn drawing 10 - 15 times with different colours each time. It was just aesthetically pleasing and like a school exercise. Nothing brave. Me and her went to the kitchen and made some quick food. I, used to the single dirty apartment life, started to prepare the food with my jacket still on, and without putting the bread on my plate and dumb things like that I KNOW she paid attention to. I tried to make up for it with jokes.

She didn’t wear socks inside. It has always shocked me when people do that, and honestly, I never liked it. In my home, there are so many animal hairs and crumbs and stuff on the floor that you just can’t do that. Doing it would be nasty. Apparently, they had a perfectly clean floor, as well. It felt so extremely weird to be in her home. Where she goes after work every day. God knows everything she does there. Has family dinners, drink wine, has sex, laughs with her children, use her computer. The walls were covered with art. Real art. Mostly works by her artist friends, some by herself. Everything perfect. I felt embarrassed by the thought of her seeing my home, where I come from. Junk everywhere, huge, messy, smelly dogs, tasteless furniture, mess, mess, mess, all white walls, windows not washed in years, dirty kitchen, weird smells. Her back towards me as she lead me, the back of her head, the short, brown hairs, her narrow shoulders with her arms sticking outwards from her body. I couldn’t tell if she was 20 or 60. I wanted to hold her.

We sat down, and I told her a story that made her laugh, even though the tension had died. She awkwardly walked me to the bus stop and pointed to her childhood home. Her entire life was there. I quickly hugged her and was off to the festival deep in some fjord a few hours away. There I suffered from severe stomach pains alone in my tent for two days, regularly crying in confusion over what just happened, worried I had just failed, or she had just rejected me in the most gentle way she could, what was up with me. I also met her daughter at the festival. We looked at each other, and by the look of it, she can’t stand me either. “What are you doing with my mother? Who the fuck are you?”, I read, in her eyes. As if I’m a horny teen manipulating a sexy milf, her mother, without respect.

Since then, when I have met her, it hasn’t felt the same. Our interactions have been short and forced. Like she is pulling away. Maybe telling me “it’s over now, I’m done”. And I’ve tried for weeks to figure out just what I need to say and do to either have my experience of love with her, or ultimately move one (to what, I can’t even see). It was her I was committed to all along, someone just like her. I can’t believe all of this happened to me. How can I end this story? The love story of my life.

(Notes for myself if I ever decide to write this as a love story) The gift Drawing lessons, meeting her eyes, I’m best in class, when I come in Painting the kitchen walls, waiting All the other women Her seeing my apartment, I cleaned it As I stood in her office, waiting, I hated myself

[anonymouskar]

I just cried in a way I don’t think I have before. It was actually pleasurable. Sad, but enjoyable. I’ve cleaned the entire apartment, cooked nice food for myself, showered. I’ve been alone here for two weeks now, and things have been falling apart because I have been busy working. I’ve smiled a lot, actually, today.

Yesterday was the last day of working together, for me and her. We were alone, all day. We were dressed well, I did my practical work of cleaning, sorting and fixing things, while she sat in her office. I could hear deliberately loud sighs and moans from in there, as if to remind me she was there or something. We met regularly in the hallway and kitchen. We spoke about personal things, made jokes, smiled. She interviewed and filmed me briefly for a promotional video for the school, but it was clearly a happening between us two, more than a proper interview. It was all about how our eyes met, and how what I said was really meant for her, not the camera. She was so enthusiastic and excited and couldn’t help take pictures of me instead. I don’t know what for.

I suggested to her that we could eat some ice cream. It was sunny and beautiful outside. Perfect temperature and wind, plants at their strongest, active animals. The time for life. After thinking about it for a while, she agreed. She had initially declined saying she couldn’t eat junk-food anymore. She seems to be quite insecure about her weight, I don’t know if it’s only around me. She is a big woman, I suppose. I can see it on her joints, they are thick, and she carries some weight on her stomach, breast and butt, but it’s not too bad. She loves food. But suddenly she appeared from her office and had decided to go grab us some ice cream after all. We had such a good time. She laughed out of joy, said I’m so much like her son, but at the same time so different. Then she, again, invited me to her studio. Right beside her house, where she paints her strange, saturated but still classical paintings. She reminded me again and again “you are coming, right?”, “send me a message when you can come”, “you need to come and give me some critique”. She really wants me to come, who would have thought.

So now I just cried alone and acted out what I could say to her in her studio, if I got so overwhelmed by how beautiful I thought it was. What she does, how she is, how she looks, where she lives, how she cares about me. I acted out confessing to her, as if she was here, and I felt safe. I felt as if she would embrace me for it. I can’t believe she keeps coming back for more. Nobody I liked ever did that. It’s not like I think she is in love with me, I don’t think so, but in some way, she must love me. And I know she has her strong suspicions about how I feel, and still, she comes back. If only she understands. I hope she does. I hope she doesn’t attempt to introduce me to her husband or starts distancing herself from me. I hope to God she doesn’t. She must allow me to be in this until I inevitably have to leave her behind. That’s the healthy way for this to end. So I enjoyed this cry because it wasn’t in despair, it was in gratitude and love.

[anonymouskar]

Notes about her

Can’t believe how committed I am to this one woman. Like half the purpose of my life lies with her, and my mission is to be with her, in one way or another. I take chances for her that I wouldn’t for any other person. The motivation for intimacy and love is that strong. Lately, I’ve been having a lot of dreams where she is a child. A baby, a toddler, someone who can barely walk. In one dream I embraced her, and her body shrunk to that of a baby. I carried her, and she smiled at me and talked about silly things I didn’t really care about. She was so proud and happy. I thought about stealing her from her parents. Her hair was shaven off, like it is now.. and her face was full of spots, but I thought she was so cute. Often this is the way I feel. I’m so much younger, but she does so many silly and childish things that I often feel older. I can see that she has gray hairs and wrinkles, and that her breasts are heavy and sagging, and that her stomach hangs and her hands are big and wrinkled, but she is a vulnerable, nervous and sensitive girl. Her eyes tell it all. Her eyes are big, brown, constantly moving and observing. You can tell that she’s taking it all in and then feeling it, and then forming opinions. It happens so slowly. She notices the smallest details, gets stuck on them, looks at the floor and gets lost in thought. It’s so easy to tell and makes her child-like. That same woman has lived a wild life though, compared to mine. She still tries to, but she always prefers the company of gentler, more conservative people like me. That’s how I know her. Gentle, slow. Not rebellious.

Today I asked her to come look at my project. Four paintings I’m working on. I share my working space with three other guys and an older woman. Three of us guys are the best students at the school. Today came a time where I was completely alone there, and I thought “this is the damn time to ask her, I might not get this chance again”. I quickly walked to the school and her office and just asked. I had avoided asking earlier because I saw that my presence made her nervous before. There’s a lot of unsaid and unconfronted things between us, and she needs space. She knows that every glance or word might reveal some uncomfortable truth, and she’s very scared of emotional confrontation. But now she expressed actually wanting to come, quickly packed her stuff and we walked together in the sun. She wore a tight, sexy black skirt. I held conversations safe and fun, made her laugh. She walked a lot slower than me. was careful down the stairs that I wanted to jump down. I constantly had to stop, turn around and wait for her. She said very silly, not-thought-out-things, like she sometimes does with me. When we came to my workspace, she couldn’t stop smiling. She looked at all my random installations, mess, paints, notes and sketches. Found it all very charming, I guess. I stood beside her, like a soldier ready to take orders, and when she asked me about my project I couldn’t answer. I really couldn’t articulate my thoughts and ideas. She critiqued me, pretty harshly, like I knew she would. I knew she would because I trust in her honesty. And I trust in her honesty because I know she respects me, and I can see right through her if she lies. She told me to completely remove parts of my stuff, and said some of it was really anonymous and “munk-like”. I suspect she was doing some concealed “advice” to me as a person as well. I know she thinks I’m overly anonymous and munk-like. I love how she pays attention to it, and has opinions about it, and in some way even deeply enjoys it. I looked at her face as she spoke. Her cheeks were red, she tried to look serious, like a proper wise teacher, but I smiled so much that she had to smile as well. She had to catch a bus, and couldn’t stay for long. She walked to the door, and in the doorway turned around and leaned her face to the doorframe and I don’t know what she said, but it was said with care. When she left I ran to the window and watched her walk off. When she was on the bus she wrote me some messages, just to make sure I understood her, and because she was thinking of me.

I often wonder if I can attract her with my youthfulness. There’s no denying I have a fit, muscular and young male body, despite my condition. Under the right conditions, I think I would feel able to have sex with her, and I would perform like any other young man, I hope. I don’t know. I look at myself in the mirror and hope that I appeal to her. I hope she glances at my arms, watches me from behind. It’s a very new thing for me, to actually want someone to look at my body and be attracted to it. Maybe she’s insecure about hers, even, because of mine. About her fat, the giant scar on her stomach, her arms, who knows. These things might be real. I just can’t move on. I care for her, so deeply, and I love her, and I’m attracted to her, and I want to learn from her. Give me one more year.

[anonymouskar]

Let me tell you another story. It’s about my love life again, because where else do you find the greatest passion? She cut off her hair and it changed my life.

On Monday she cut all of her hair off. I had just left her at school an hour before, and the next thing I know (from facebook) she’s completely changed her appearance. It sounds silly, but I got ill. I had to lie down. I didn’t eat for the rest of the day. I looked at the facebook picture again and again to try to imagine meeting her like that. I mourned her hair. I fucking loved it. The perfect colour, length and texture. Exactly the type of hair I like. I always dreamed of running my fingers through it, one day. I planned to do it. Then it was gone. I judged her decision harshly. Obviously, it wasn’t a decision motivated by looking good, and when a woman makes a decision to make herself less attractive... that’s not a good sign. I don’t care if it sounds bad, but women (and men) claim status through appearance and sexuality too, and I know she values being respected and admired, even desired. So I suspect it was done as some desperate attempt at being rebellious like she would like to be, but really isn’t, and far too late in her life.

But I still care for her so much. So the next few days I spied on her from a secret location across the street where she painted. I watched her in her white gown, completely changed. She painted on a self-portrait and talked to strangers in there. I don’t think she ever noticed me. I spied on her to get used to how she looked so when I actually met her I wouldn't express something that would have hurt her. My eyes would reveal shock and even anger, or disappointment. I got to express that in private. I had to deal with that alone.

But I met her, after that, and played it so cool. I walked in where she painted. She looked so glad to have me there, and I acted as if she was exactly like before. The atmosphere was tender, loving. She was there alone. She talked about her hair, of course, and offered it for me to touch. I had dreamed about that happening the night before. I told her she seemed different, after cutting it, but I couldn’t point out how. We spoke about our relationship, all alone, while she painted. What is right, ethically speaking. What we have done and why. I just sat there, with her, for a long time. People came and left, and I just sat there. Maybe my behaviour was desperate, or some other negative thing, but I couldn’t think of any better way to spend my time. I didn’t give a fuck if it was apparent to either her or anybody else that I was there for her. I occasionally walked over to her work and asked her to tell me about the paints she used, her brushes, her oils. Her oils smelled wonderful. I left when her husband arrived..

The following days I cried regularly and had trouble eating. I imagined how she looked before and experienced it like that person had died. My roommate even pointed it out “you are mourning the loss of her, aren't you? Who she was to you?”. Yes, I was. You could say it’s just a haircut, and I know, but nothing is ever that simple. She lost her younger, yet more mature and sensitive vibe. Her humility. In my head, I always walked around with a memory of her. Every night I dreamed of that hair, every time I saw a woman on the street from behind who kind of looked like her it was because of her hair. Every time I imagined her it was her flicking her hair or letting it fall in front of her face as she blushed. Now she’s all exposed. A friend of mine said she looked sick, like she had cancer. I don’t know, it has just changed my life. Revealed something to me.

But today I woke up and I ate, and I felt fine. I put on nice clothes and walked around town. Didn’t expect to meet her, but guess what, I did. I walked into a small gallery, and there she was. I was cool and just passed her after saying a firm “hello” with confident eye contact. She was already in a conversation. I spoke to the artist there, a former teacher, and paid 0 attention to my crush. After a while, she approached us and took over the conversation while I curiously just watched them. Then it happened. She said she was going to get some coffee, and asked if I wanted to come along. I did. Suddenly, the day after crying over her, the day after I dreamed an entire night of holding her, I was at a cafe with her. For the first time in a while, I was turned on. She showed me artists she liked, on her phone, and told me a story about a letter she wrote to one, I asked and asked. It was sunny and we sat by the window, she wore red and her breasts sat firmly under the thin sweater. She touched her thighs, laughed, drank her coffee and left red lipstick on the cup. At times it was tense because I know she knows, but I hope she had a good time. I really hope so. She left me with no hug, but that’s okay, instead stopped and smiled at me when passing me in the window outside. These days I’ve experienced the depths of my passionate love for her. As it exists now. I’ve never been moved more. I have relived every loving memory I have with her. My first ever experiences of being loved in return are with her, if ever so small and just in the way she has spoken and glanced. In brief moments, only sometimes, I know she has loved me.

[anonymouskar]

Story about me failing, with a pizza in my hand

I’ve messed up so many opportunities lately. I’m so pissed at myself that I can’t sleep at night. My two goals until summer have been to do a great exam-project and really go as far as I can go with that woman I like. I’m so far not doing well at either. It all started after I was stupid enough to take the bus from her house when she invited me home. Or, it was a misunderstanding. It’s only a few weeks ago, but right then she really wanted to give me attention, smile to me, show herself off. It was beautiful.

I get that people probably don’t give a shit about this, but I need to tell “someone”. These things are just so dumb that I won’t speak directly to anyone about it. Confession is best done anonymously and in writing, for me at least.

I started talking, that was my mistake. Started taking chances and developed idiotic boldness. Undeserved. She always liked me for my quiet communication and humbleness. She likes me best when I sit in the corner, quietly observing and giving her smiles and loving glances. I like that version of me more too, it’s the default me, the honest me, but I figured I needed to be a little more out there so that I could collect some respect and take on some social responsibility.

Yesterday an unbelievable coincidence happened. I’d had a rough day of work, and late at night decided to go buy myself the brand new vegan frozen pizza. Just a silly errand. So I went and got it, and as usual, was lost in thoughts about potential future scenarios with her. I walked through town, was dressed pretty good although my wet hair stood in all directions. I passed the hotel and looked inside, and I looked straight into HER EYES. She looked shocked, like her brain was trying to figure out the proper way to react - fast. She looked much younger than usual. I must have looked equally shocked, and immediately stopped. She smiled a little, unsure, and then I did the stupid thing. In the seconds I had to decide if I would just smile and walk on, or do something, I decided on the latter.. I started to wink her towards me, signalling “come outside”. I did it with the hand I held the pizza in, and it confused her. She sat there with other older adults, in an important meeting. I suspect her husband sat right across her too, but I could only see her, surrounded by figures. She decided to come out.. and as she stood up. Just as she got out of the chair, a look I will never forget revealed itself on her face. She looked annoyed. My heart was shattered right there. Is this what I am to her? Is this what it has come to? She came out and smiled at me and all (suspect it was fake), and we held an awkward, random conversation because I didn’t fucking know what to say. I barely looked at her. I felt like the most pathetic man on earth.

I could have walked on by. She would have had that same shocked reaction, but this time it would have been an exciting coincidence. Just meeting her eyes through the window. And I would have seemed mature and independent. I should have just walked on. Instead, I stood there in the window, with all her intellectually superior 40+year-old friends surrounding her. Waving a fucking pizza at her. Skinny me, with dark hair pointing everywhere, my intense blue eyes locked onto her, demanding she comes out for no reason at all. And her look of “uhg.. I have to go outside”. Fukcing disgusting.

Now I have decided to be passive. I have decided to just not initiate contact. Stop speaking, stop acting. This has been a catastrophic way of going about it.