Confessions to a Blank Page
It’s late at night on a weekend as I write this. I’m craving whiskey and a cigarette, but I have black coffee instead. I like the bitterness of black coffee. It reminds me of the rare, true things in my life. There aren’t many things I consider honest, except black coffee and the words I write on this page, including the stories.
I like this blog because almost everything I’ve written here is a product of how I felt in that moment. Some days you overcome your emotions; on others, they overcome you. I value this space for the honesty I’ve allowed myself, the extent to which I’ve expressed it. I’ve been referenced in other blogs, and some people have disagreed with me vehemently, which amused me. I like disagreement. It tells me they felt something and understood what I wrote. Disagreement is just part of the game. I respect their opinions.
I don’t think I’m honest anywhere else apart from this blank page. The only reason I write on a keyboard on my Mac is so I can hide these files. I love writing longhand with a good pen in a diary, but that feels too risky. I don’t want someone to find it and read my thoughts.
I’m not overly worried about what would happen if they did. I’m worried about how they would interpret it and how much pity they would show if they ever read my emotional outbursts. I hate pity with a deep, visceral disgust. It feels deeply disrespectful to pity someone’s condition. It implies a hierarchy, as though you are bestowing your benevolence upon them. I can’t fully articulate it, but it repulses me.
It’s strangely ironic that I want to hide my most honest and vulnerable self from the people I care about. I don’t want them to see this side of me, partly because they wouldn’t care, and partly because they would respond with pity instead of warmth. It is this need for warmth that has disrupted my life beyond my control. Some days, the need becomes so overwhelming that not even writing can contain it. I wish I could sit alone, drown myself in whiskey, and smoke endlessly, but that would feel too bleak, too undignified.
So I try to run away from it all. If I could shoot myself right now, I would, but there is too much responsibility on my shoulders. And besides, they would still pity me after I’m gone, and perhaps hate me too for leaving them behind in this mess.
Whoever says you should talk your heart out to someone is misleading you. I haven’t met a single person who is a truly good listener. So I became one. I know I am because almost everyone I meet says so. I listen because I know what it feels like when no one pays attention, when they don’t even let you finish. So when it’s my turn, I let them speak without judgment.
That only makes you realize how deeply flawed it all is, how lonely a life it has been, that I couldn’t find a single person with whom I could open up freely, without judgment or pity. And then there is something worse than both: solutions. Every time I’ve tested someone with a moment of vulnerability, they’ve offered a flood of solutions, as if I hadn’t already considered them.
On one hand, they call me one of the smartest people they know, and on the other, they offer solutions as though I am incapable of thinking. So I chose silence. I stopped speaking. Instead, I cultivated the image of a responsible man, someone who listens, who cares, and who does what is expected of him, which is to carry the burden and keep moving forward.
Of course, it hurts. There are days when everything hurts. That’s how I learned that mental pain can manifest as physical pain. There are studies about it now, but I learned it the hard way. At times, I wish I could be rude, even harsh, but I can’t, because that would hurt others, and I don’t want anyone to suffer because of me. Still, there are moments when I want to push back.
I often wonder where I went wrong, what I could have done differently, why I don’t have even one person with whom I can be completely open. Ideally, I shouldn’t be confessing on a blank page of a blog that no one reads. It is therapeutic, but the need for therapy shouldn’t have existed in the first place. Perhaps I was too careless in nurturing relationships when they came my way.
When I think about my twenties, I realize I still avoided pity. I became cold, distant, resilient, so people would dislike me rather than pity me. It was a flawed way of thinking, but I didn’t know what else to do. Every choice carries consequences, and I never stayed connected with people, for reasons I still don’t fully understand.
And now here I am, with a bitter cup of black coffee on my desk that isn’t even hot anymore, writing my heart out on a blank page for a few people who read but don’t know me, and understandably don’t care. There is a strange comfort in confessing to strangers, perhaps because they cannot judge you, or if they do, you never have to face it. It’s always those who know you, yet still judge you, who hurt the most.
I’ve read enough psychology to know the terms, the techniques to cope, even the medications that can help. They all work, but only temporarily. The mind’s need for warmth is too powerful for anything to suppress it for long. Techniques, meditation, rationalization, daily writing, they all help, and yet they fail when the need becomes overwhelming.
So I focus on my duties. I become the man they expect me to be. I take care of my family in every way, financially, emotionally, and otherwise. When you are a good listener, people eventually tell you everything. The ugliness of human nature unfolds before you, and you absorb it, even when you are hurting inside. You nod, you comfort, because you know what it feels like to have no one.
At times, I feel like a dumping ground, a place where people unload their worries, insecurities, and anxieties, receive reassurance, and move on. And I am left wondering, is this what conversation is supposed to be? Isn’t it meant to flow both ways?
So I have, in many ways, given up on the idea. I’ve made peace with the thought that I may carry this grief all my life, the absence of a connection where conversation flows both ways. There are moments where it happens, briefly, but they feel conditional, almost like an afterthought once the other person has finished speaking.
I don’t resist it anymore. I’ve become emotionally stronger, or perhaps just more conditioned. I can rationalize endlessly without breaking down. I know I will survive, I will keep functioning, whatever that may mean. Perhaps, on some nights, I will reach for whiskey instead of coffee, just enough to reset and continue the next day.
It’s just that some days are heavier than others. Some days, words fail you. The mind refuses logic, the heart refuses to listen. Some days, all you want is a hug, to let it out. But men don’t cry, and they shouldn’t, no matter how strong the urge may be. I tell myself that every night before going to sleep.