ADDICT: Thoughts of a Guilty Man

Legitimate

How do you know your feelings are real? 

Think about it. When you feel something, do you ever wonder if it's... real? When you laugh, is it genuine? When you're sad, is it heavy? When you cry, do the tears still sting your eyes, or do they feel borrowed? Does your pain carry the same weight? Your joy, the same exuberance, your peace, the same calmness, your tears, the same freedom? 

Maybe you're wondering why I'd ask something like this. It might sound absurd. Lunacy, even. Nevertheless, if your answer is yes, then you've stayed true to yourself, and that is commendable. Quite commendable. 

I wish I could say the same. 

Lately, I've been pondering my emotions. If they're factually real. If they're... legitimate. Let me give you an example. 

One afternoon, I got into a fight with an acquaintance. They were annoying me; deliberately getting in my way when I was trying to walk past them. I tried telling them to leave me be, but they would not. They simply kept annoying me, jeering at me and whatnot, for reasons only they know. Then they left me for a short while, and I thought it was over. It wasn't. I was beginning to calm down when I felt a piece of crumpled paper hit my head. This, naturally, greatly annoys any sane person. 
I snapped. I wanted to retaliate. I wanted to turn around and beat them up right there and then for the constant nuisance they were being to a person who was simply trying to get through their day. I fought the urge to strike them because I didn't want to hurt them. Well, it was more a fear of the consequences of injuring them than anything else. And my upbringing says to never raise my hand against another, so I did the next best thing: Flinging my bag to the floor, I grabbed them by the neck and brought them down to their knees. They cried out in sudden pain, and I realised that I was standing on their foot. An accident, but costly. Their cry had caught the attention of the drunken uncle. 

Shit. 

Woe is me, for I had raised my hand against another. 

Now he meant trouble. Notorious for his temper. He came, he saw, he reacted. All he saw was my friend in pain, and my arm around their neck. In a fit of rage, he stomped towards me and ripped me from off them and pushed me to the ground. Needless to say, violence ensued. Shouting angrily as he shoved me, sometimes hitting me, until the fight was broken off. 
Eventually, he asked me what had happened, and I explained to him in detail what had happened. It was, of course, too late: the damage had already been done. A lot more happened, but I must get to the point.

Why did I bring this up? You see, when he was being aggressive towards me, something weird happened. He balled up his fist and caught the side of my head. He hit me so hard on my ear that it rang and hurt inside. I cried out, more out of dismay than pain, and in that moment, I had an epiphany.

I didn't care. 

I didn't care about the pain. I didn't care about the blows he landed. Scars fade. Wounds heal. But that? That was long-term. Damage to my eardrum would be consequential. A ruptured vein in my eye would draw attention. I didn't care about anything else. He could beat my torso, my back, literally anywhere else as long as it's out of sight.
But this time, things were different.
Despite the pain I was feeling, I dissociated and could see myself cowering beneath his gaze, being made subject to his slightly drunken wrath. My gradually desperate plea for understanding didn't matter. A steady resolve as I waited for the next strike across the same side of my face made no difference. His wrath would soon be pacified. The physical pain would eventually cease.
I was going to my part-time job the next day, so I had to come up with an excuse for my poor hearing in one ear and a ruptured vein in my eye. Dodgeball did just fine. I had to wear a smile on my face and have a great day as always, and I did, just like I've always done. I had to wake up in the morning and carry on as if nothing happened, and I have been ever since. The countless times I-... 

I apologise. I digressed a bit too far. Point is: I was busy thinking instead of actually feeling. I had to remind myself to stay in the moment, to focus on what was in front of me. Even then, I still couldn't fully bring myself back into my body.
I realised that even the smiles I showed people every day were just masks. I compartmentalize every day and put on a show for everyone, even myself. I tell myself I'm okay even when I'm not because I know no better. I refuse to know any better. 

Because what would anyone care even if I wasn't?

I play the happy guy when I'm outside. I play the funny, good guy when I'm with my friends. But do I really feel happy? Do I really feel pain? Is what I feel real at all? Or is it just a front, part of a show I put on for the world to see? The realisation of my apathy towards emotion unsettled me more than the incident itself. 

I tried to find myself behind the masks. I thought that maybe the person I am when I wake up in the morning, the person I am without a filter on is the real me. I tried speaking up for myself, but I guess it wasn't at the right place, nor the right time. You must be confused as to what I mean. Allow me to elaborate. 

A Wednesday morning. I was in the kitchen with my mother. We were prepping breakfast and casually talking. I asked a question — something small about the trash schedule, or whether someone had done their share of the chores. She grew tense. Her voice rose. I tried to clarify, to reason, but she cut me off.

"Don't try to talk over me," she snapped. "I'm your mother. If you can't speak with respect, don't speak at all."

Later that day, I got a long message from her in the family group chat. Why she didn't text me personally, I will never understand. Said I was trying to silence her. Quoted scripture — something about fools being wise when silent. My father, who wasn't even there, chimed in too: "If you don't want to be treated like a child, don't act like one." 

But it's okay, they're always right anyway. Because even then, I still went to University and had myself a great day. I compartmentalized and forgot about it, just as I've always done for years. 

One more box, straight to the attic. 

That's the strange thing. I remember knowing I was hurt, but I don't feel that hurt the same way anymore. Not in my body. Not in my chest. It's like I watched it all happen to someone else. I can relate to the feeling when recalling the memories, the same way anyone can relate to a sob story. I simply observe what once had happened, remember what once was felt. 

So now, the question remains: Who am I without the masks? 

I don't know. I really don't. Sometimes I wonder if the pain I carry is even mine, or something I accidentally picked up somewhere but forgot to put down. Maybe it's just another mask I wear, a façade I put on. A role I play. Something I've worn so long it fused to my skin, becoming indistinguishable from the self. Maybe I forgot how to function without it.

So maybe, just maybe, I am my masks. And my masks are me. 

Perhaps it's not a show; It's all real. Maybe numbness is the foundation for everything I feel. Maybe there doesn't need to be a single point of operation. Maybe emotion is something observed from a different point of view, by the multifaceted being that is my selves.
Maybe I just run a different hardware, one that allows multiple software to process information from a single input. 

No wonder I write the way I do. I've been trying to transcribe a multi-threaded internal dialogue using linear words. Maybe it's just meant to be busy, noisy and chaotic in here. Maybe it's not a flaw, maybe I'm not broken; just a different operating system. Be it layered consciousness, psychological defence, neurodivergence, or—according to my faith—demons, maybe it's all legitimate. 

Maybe I am legitimate. 

2000 words and I still have lots to say. But maybe some things aren't meant to be said. Some things aren't meant to be spoken. Maybe some things just aren't meant to be. So I'll leave it at that. I might have said too much, I might not have said enough. But the fact remains, with a shrug and a sigh, it is what it is. 

Ooey gooey touchy feely, but it is what it is.