Sometimes, I’ll look at myself in the mirror, and think “I don’t look that bad”. Not that I’m vain, or anything, I don’t spend hours staring at my stupid reflection. It’s just one of those things. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m inches away from my own image, and I can’t see the details. Then, I’ll look at photos of myself, and recoil in disgust. The wrinkles, the structural deformities of my face, the gloomy, droopy way my eyes seem to express that I’m dead on the inside… there’s hardly an expression in any picture of me, from the last 20, 25 years.
The way my hair appears to hate me, the paleness of my stupid skin, the freckles, the malignant tumour on my arm, the lump on my chest, the chicken pox scar on my forehead… they all jump out at me in every photograph I’ve ever seen of myself. Not that there’s any picture of myself shirtless… I just feel the lump on my chest is visible, because I know it’s there.
The sound of my voice, to myself, is terribly awful. I sound like a very drugged-out Steven Seagal pretending to be Kermit the Frog, I have no intonation, no rhythm to my speech, and I hate being so damn monotonous. And that’s when I do happen to speak. If there’s anything I hate more than talking, because of the sound of my own voice, it’s not talking when I feel I have something to say.
Sometimes I don’t say the things I want to say, or even do the things I want to do, because I’m too self-aware. What if they think I’m too “this”, or too “that”. It’s happened a couple of times. Even in situations wherein my friends and myself are saying stupid shit to outgross eachother, I’ll throw something in, and I’ll get looks that say “ooooh! you went too far”.
Other times, I’ll say something I consider relevant, and it’ll go unnoticed. Then, a few days later, someone else will reflect my sentiment, and he/she will be seen as a visionary. So, I think to myself, what’s the point in opening my mouth?
Then, there’s the traumas from my past. A few incidents have fucked my psyche up, big time. This is the first time I’m ever discussing them.
Once, we went to my grandparents’ house. My grandfather was busy collecting wood for the fireplace, and he asked me for my help. When I couldn’t carry a bundle of branches, because I was fucking eleven years old, he said to me “You’re too feeble”. Really, old man? All I wanted to do when I was eleven and went to my grandaprents’ house was to play soccer with my cousin, go build our fort, and eat as many potato chips as I could. I wasn’t there to haul fucking wood, and I tried to help, but hey, thanks for the little tidbit!
Once, years later, I failed a final test in 8th grade. The reason I failed was that, during the previous two weeks, I had undergone a severe case of typhoidea, and at the same time, chicken pox. None of this mattered to my dad, who upon receiving notice from the school that I had failed, limited himself to telling me “You are a failure”.
During that same school year, I was bullied into believing I laughed – and smiled – ridiculously. I guess that’s the reason I don’t smile all that much, since. It’s no surprise I chose to repeat that schoolyear in another school, than spend another year with these people bullying me.
And finally, there’s the myriad of “I’m the bad guy?” scenarios, wherein people tend to ignore other people’s wrongdoings and focus on my reaction to them as if I were the most evil of demons. Like when I call my sister a piece of shit because other than the suitcase I arrived with to Canada, she disappeared all of my possessions, people will be all “dude, she’s still your sister”. Or, if I referred to my ex-wife as a whore a couple of times because she cheated on me in several instances, people will confront me with “you shouldn’t talk like that”. Really, fuckos? I’m the bad guy?
One thing I found really amusing, and in a way, a reality check, was a couple of months ago, when I created an email acount, spent hours organizing my contacts, dividing them into “family”, “friends”, and the like, and then proceeded to email everybody, reaching out, trying to establish (or reestablish) contact. Out of the fucking hundred people I emailed, two or three replied back. None of my fucking family, and none of my closer friends. Just a couple of people saying “hey thanks for emailing me, and considering me your friend”. I’ve yet to hear back from them.
And finally, there’s the whole “under-appreciated” thing. Be it at work, or with my sisters, or with friends going through trouble, despite my hardest efforts, nobody ever takes the time to say “hey, Iceberg, thanks for being there”. It’s always more like “um… yeah, you did your best, but it just ain’t good enough for us to consider you worthwhile”. Yet the instant somebody shows up to kiss their ass, they have a new BFF. Fucking retards.
Of course, none of that matters now, because stupid or not, I’ve had a huge smile on my face for the past few weeks. Life’s been great, and I have the feeling it’s getting better every day. Who cares about anything else?
Ancora Imparo,
The Iceberg.