I never felt like I really feared rejection, the idea seemed pointless to me; thus I refused to believe that I am motivated by fear when I fail to approach girls. Whenever I did, I usually did not feel very bad about being rejected. Especially the beautiful girls that I preferred to approach often had extremely positive attitudes and the rejection felt painless.
But when I look closer, there is a pattern of rejections that irrationally terrified me to the bone. One of those was when the girl that rejected me was of the rather unhappy kind. It left me feeling grossly inadequate. The other, even more painful kind of situation ensued when I felt that the display of my desire made the girl uncomfortable or downright clam up. I felt like hell hath me. It was unbearable to the point where I would have done almost anything to stop the sensation.
My intent was, of course, only to make her dank at the twat, but intent is not everything.
The pattern of fear
It was fear that motivated me to become a social recluse. To cut off all my friends and contacts. And it is fear that hinders me from talking to girls and trying to make friends. It is a paralyzing and maiming fear.
A profound fear of guilt and shame.
When I see anybody – especially women – who do not display happiness, something in me goes havoc. There is something wrong, I feel danger. I feel the responsibility to fix it; not because it is my fault, but because I simply cannot take seeing discomfort in others. It literally offends my sense of security.
Vague memories come up of a mother whom I heard cry miserably. I must have been very small. I must have believed the world was going under. She would have cried out in such an existential manner that it would give me the creeps. And why? What happened? It must have been an argument. I must have used logic as domestic violence, possibly.
My grandmother – the only other person in my family – would have come into my room, with a facial expression of despair. She would have said that my mother was very sick and very sad and that we had to try to accommodate her. She would have said that I would have to be very nice to my mother so that she would not suffer. Maybe she would have even said that I caused her suffering through something I did. How can a child have that power? I would have wanted nothing more than to see my mother happy and yes, if it took for me to be a selfless nice boy, that is who I would need to be. Simply because I could not possibly tolerate seeing her this way.
When I invited the concierge at the hotel in Prague to my room and she made plans with me for the next day, I felt all kinds of hot. When she left me a note the next morning, that it would not work out, I was frustrated that I would not have sex. But even more, guilt overwhelmed me. What did I do wrong? Did I overstep a barrier? Did I force her into saying yes without meaning it? Oh, what had I done to her. If only I had kept my penis to myself.
When I, burning with desire, asked the doctor’s assistant for a fuck and she refused, I took it as a part of the game that I would not fuck. But I felt like the devil for being so daring, felt like the lowest piece of scum when she meekly said Bye afterward.
When I set after my colleague at a grill evening, she kept refusing me, but I did not care. I pushed on and on, because it was all a game. I did not care about fucking as much as I enjoyed the hunt. But when she grew cold like an icicle the next days, I was helpless against my guilt. Within the course of a day, I gave in and apologized, eventually rationalized that I was only afraid of losing my job. I could not see myself as anything but a dirty criminal.
When I asked the really hot girl in the park if she wanted to go for a drink, she happily refused. I moved on with a smile on my face. Same with the two young bunnies whom I asked whether I could join them at their picnic. I was nice, they were nice. When I asked another kinda ugly girl and she looked at me with disgust, I once more felt like I had transgressed a limit.
When I was having a drink with an admitted beautiful non-commercial whore and bluntly told her I wanted to fuck her, she hardly cared. She was not offended, she took it as a compliment. Although she was a horrible person and her disaffection came at the cost of her not caring about me, I was unspeakably grateful for her unspoken acceptance of who I was and what I was expressing. I actually enjoyed the distance. Not caring meant not pretending. It led nowhere, but we parted ways in peace. When I eventually did something that made her angry at me later on, my demons came up once more.
The pattern of guilt
When men say that all men secretly want to be heroes for women, is that true? And then they see men who have no such tendencies and they call them sociopaths. Healthy men. No, healthy men do not cruise the internet to find the truth about women. They are out there fucking them, because it is not a big deal.
Where does that heroism come from? In my case, it comes from a kid who decided to take matters into his own hands. A kid who thought he could do anything, fix anything, make everything perfect. A kid who was praised for these efforts of his and liked by the weaklings who thrived under hisaffection. And whenever that kid failed, there would be someone to remind the kid of its noble goal:
You do not want momma to be sad, do you?
No, of course not! The ideal would flame up again, the hero would hold his burning sword once more and play nice, make momma happy. And she would be.
That kid developed a weird kind of hubris, did he not. The hubris that he had the power to make everybody happy through wearing a mask, being the person others need. And this mad illusion of power led that kid to not being able to tolerate discomfort in others. Because, think of it: If I have the power to make everything right, how can I live with myself, yes how can I justify not doing it?
But that deluded kid would do well to remind itself that he did not selflessly decide to be momma’s hero. He decided to do this because he needed her to be there for him. And if being himself would make her unavailable and sad, no, then he would rather not be himself. Every kind of pain and effort is better than abandonment. And what other choice does a kid have who can not simply run away from that terrible, blood-curdling cry of agony that his mother utters?
That is not all
But I not simply fear guilt, no. Much like the guilt I fear the terrible abuse I will take because of it. The terrible people I will stay around because of it. I fear that I will once more get to be with a person like my mother, who does not care for me but to drown me in useless love and praise, with no chance to escape. I fear the marionette that I will become in order to not have to feel guilt. I fear for my , because once those emotions get a grip on me, I may as well have forgotten what self-respect and reason mean. I fear getting overly attached to the first woman who remotely accepts me for who I am and to succumb to my gratitude. I fear for the freedom of thought that I enjoy in solitude and I fear the people I will pretend to be when I am in company of others.
Paranoia. If girls behaved like bitches, I would subconsciously believe that it was only a trick to make me express anger and hurt them, causing them to play the victim and guilt trip me – something I could not possibly tolerate. And it was true. My intolerance of guilt made me a wuss that would take any kind of abuse. If only, if only I did not have to be responsible for any discomfort of anybody else. If only I could be a hero. It naturally amused girls to make fun of me, only to see me laugh at myself to praise their wit. Instead of .
I am afraid of the fact that I absolutely can not tolerate seeing a girl I value in the least offended by me. And even my desire could offend a girl. I am afraid what I will do in the attempt to prevent offending her. Afraid that I may not even have the courage to walk away and disobey her if she makes me believe that this will hurt her feelings and that I am acting unjustly. Terribly afraid that I am just a fish waiting for a hook to voluntarily bite into.
But the times when I could not get away from my mother are gone. I live on my own now. I now have the solitude I wanted and desperately needed.
There is no one I see on the regular. If I hurt somebody, no matter how harshly, it is improbable that it will haunt me – unless I let it. It is an irrational fear left over from a time where I could not get away, could do nothing but yield.
I have been running away for half a year now, running away from the faint chance that I may once more feel the existential terror of hurting somebody.
But I see now that there is no way I can run away from it. Time will not heal me. I must go through the fire, go where it hurts. I must not be afraid to feel guilt, because you can not thinkably live a normal life without ever stepping on somebody’s toes. I must learn to hurt.
Because I will hurt people. People will hurt me. Tears will flow, maybe blood. There is no way around it. I must do it and let it happen. I must endure the pulsing sensation of guilt against the insides of my chest, the hot fires of hell.
I must stop being a hero and taking on myself the responsibility to make everybody happy. Because I can not. Because it is not my task. I must stop reenacting over and over what I failed to do as a kid: Finally managing to do everything right and not failing her. I have never managed it and I will never be able to be perfect enough to ward everybody from negative emotions. And If I was, it would not be my job. Why? Because I was viscerally dependent on my mother. But I am not viscerally dependent on the girls and men I will be talking to.
There is no way I can have meaningful relationships with other people if I can not tolerate hurting them the least bit.
Everybody has his problem. The place where it really hurts. His demons. These are mine. They haunt me whenever I am out on the street and they haunt me in my dreams. When I allow myself to feel them, I curl up under the sheets of my bed in terror and wish to believe in god. It is eerie.
No, I am not afraid of rejection. That would be like being afraid of not getting a cake. It is inconsequential and ridiculous. But I am afraid, terribly. In away, from being – or not being able to be – truly myself. And not the myself that feminists, or let me just say idiots, want me to be.
The great thing about knowing andis that it shows you the exact kind of path you have to take to lose it. So far the theory.