Tonight I find myself incredibly angry. I feel very hard done by. I feel deep and bitter resentment toward my parents. I should be past the age of ruminating on such things, but I can't seem to help it. I feel like I understand them better then they do themselves, which is tiresome because when it comes to important discussions I assume they know what I know about them because they set aside time for introspection. When it comes down to arguments, and I concede a point or accept a fault in myself, they don't want to meet me halfway (by doing likewise.) It seems things are always my fault. I feel like the adult, and they the children without the foresight or maturity to admit they're wrong. What makes me particularly angry is the idea that they indeed know they're wrong, but know I struggle with expressing anger and take advantage of the fact I don't know how to fight back (probably due to a childhood of any effort to assert myself even when justifiable being swiftly shut down by a show of disproportionate force to my age.)
I feel I've understood intellectually, psychologically, and emotionally very well the reasons I am who I am, and how they've played a role In shaping the positive and negative - but they don't want to accept their part in the negative! It's not fair! Why do I keep falling into a habit of honesty, emotionally and intellectually, if they won't do the same? I don't believe they're incapable, I believe they're unwilling. There are more important things in life for them. For my father, his work, and even more so, money. For my mother, preserving her carefully constructed self-image requiring immense energy and resources to maintain due in all likelihood to being abused as a child.
Here I am, wondering why the fuck I have to be aware of this, hoping the drugs I put in my body can at least temporarily stop me thinking about such things. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't.
I'm really lonely.
I turned my back on my friends in exchange for drugs which I hoped yet knew could never be a stable source of emotional connection in my life that I could trust, when I felt depressed and lost. Yes, drugs are a relationship to me, more than being just substances. In essence, they don't change. I know if I use a certain substance once, it'll make me feel good, and I also know when it'll make me feel bad (if I'm going to go through withdrawal, for example.) Now my important relationships I spent my life enjoying and taking for granted are gone. Even though my relationship with drugs these days has become less, it's so fucking painful trying to reconnect with people. I haven't had sexual, loving contact for at least two years. At uni there are so many wonderful, smart, beautiful women but my yearning for companionship drowns under the sound of my inner voice telling me not to trust emotions, and stay withdrawn. Drugs are my companion, and as the high kicks in but the knowledge they aren't a good enough substitute for human contact remains, my anger and discontent boils away.
Attempts at change are suffocated by ambivalence. I wonder endlessly...even if I got what I wanted - NEEDED - meaningful friendship, a girlfriend...how long before the myriad of subtle dynamics which cause me so such connection anxiety spring into action, sending me down the path of withdrawal from emotion again? The basic sources of this are not wanting to be rejected, (from my father,) and not wanting to be scared and confused (from my mothers borderline style emotional dysregulation.)
I grew up in an atypical middle class home - never hungering or wondering whether I'd have a roof over my head. Never (well not entirely never) physically abused, but psychologically, never feeling safe. It really sucks growing up not feeling safe, and it can happen, even when superficially everything around you seems secure. Some of you might know what I mean.
My emotional growth has been stunted for a few years now, as I haven't been using my emotional self...it's been in exile. I ache for it back, but I'm so afraid of it.
I struggle to find ways to get my emotional needs met and express my needs. They're in constant competition win my mothers, who is so fragile and needy herself.
A quick recount before I wrap up this rant. Roughly just over one year ago, I had something of a nervous breakdown. I had been unemployed for a good year and was not studying or doing anything with my life. In reality I was depressed. One Sunday afternoon my father ordered me to call someone about a job position. I didn't, because I didn't want the job, but I was to afraid to tell him at the time of the order because of fear of his response. I say order because he is a controlling man and doesn't ask you to do things, he tells you to.
So my parents get back later that afternoon and find I didn't call about the job. My dad flips out in frustration and comes to stand over me, and yell at me. He pushes me in the chair I'm sitting in in a very aggressive way. My fight or flight response kicks in and for a moment I consider swinging on him. I don't, however, and breakdown. I start sobbing. I'm sobbing like a child. I'm sobbing so hard I can't breathe. My dad seems genuinely surprised by my reaction, so he orders me to come outside and speak to him and my mother.
The damn which was holding back all of my depression and negative emotions and pain broke and tears surged down my face ceaselessly. Between every word I had to take a breath, I was crying so much.
I basically told the truth, in its entirety. I told them I was scared. They said "of what?" And I told them, of them. I didn't feel safe. As I struggled to get the words out, my mother became increasingly distraught. I was in a very vulnerable state, and I needed to be heard and acknowledged and affirmed. Yet as I went on, my mother became increasingly insulted and uncomfortable with what I was saying.
She ended up storming away, on the brink of tears, as if I HAD HURT HER. After I'd collected myself a little more, my father went to speak to her. He came out and said "obviously your mother is very hurt by what you said." I thought "to fucking bad! This was MY turn to have my emotional needs acknowledged and met, yet she STILL tried (whether consciously or not) take that away from me! FUCK HER!"
Here I am a year and a half later - the fallout from my breakdown not managed properly because I really didn't recognise it for being exactly that and thought I'd just been a little bitch (being a male can be extremely difficult, sometimes, if you know what I'm saying.)
I'm struggling with drugs and loneliness and I really needed to write that out and get it off my chest. If you've made it this far, thank you for reading.
I know I am strong willed enough to do this, but I've been very stressed lately. the wife is suspicious of course, and if she finds out it's over. for reals. 
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