Why is it that I almost have to puke when I hear that song? Yes, I admit it, the melody does resonate with me and I catch myself whistling it when I hear the song in the mall. And why would it not – it is meant and engineered to do just that. To take you on a joyride and leave you feeling empty to come back for more.
Nevertheless, I have always been a sucker for lyrics and I hate the guts out of this song. The world stands still when she smiles? What the fuck. What a fag. Or maybe it is a song about one of those sacred moments when a girl displays a truly feminine and submissive smile. But only a fag or disgusting nice guy like me would feel quite so ravished by a female smile, maybe because it is such a seldom joy in the life of a loser. Which, of course, makes it even the more amusing and easy for girls to manipulate us with it to get what they want. Oh, the marvelous lightness of being when all you have to give for a lifetime of a man’s (mangina’s) devotion is a stupid smile.
Although it is likely that the singer did not even write the text. He just sang it because he was a good singer. Then he laughed at it, together with the sound engineer at the mixer. And the sound guy would say: God, man, you looked so fucking gay when you sang that. And the singer would feel mildly ashamed, shrug, laugh and drown the idea with alcohol and checkless sex.
But I am drifting away from what I want to write about, drifting in a trance of insipid ecstasy.
But that is not who I am
That song just reminded me of how much I used to hate it – irrationally, I thought – when somebody told me they liked me just how I was. Just be who you are, right? Why, that is actually a cool thing. But deep down, I knew that I was being betrayed – or betraying myself – of just the thing I was supposedly receiving: Approval of who I was.
Hearing it left me feeling more empty than before and that was because I rarely ever was who I was, so to speak. I was wearing the masks of niceness, altruism and everything that I learned would get me approval. Yet those superficialities were as far removed from my true personality as could be and when somebody told me that they liked who I was to them, it just made me subconsciously ; angry that they would like my stupid mask more than me – the me I did not show.
Consciously, it would make me crave for more and feel vaguely robbed of my agency. As if there was a wall between me and the sensation of approval and maybe, just maybe, if I got more of it, I would finally feel it as if it was real; that idea did not let me go and thus I could not let go of needing more approval. Like a junkie, I hoped that there would be the one final fix.
The wall, of course, was the mask. The man I pretended to be because I felt deeply ashamed of who I really was. The man who wanted to violently take the girl, the man who had disgusting rape fantasies, the man who carried a at the world, the man who was terrified of ever revealing to anybody his true nature, the man who was endlessly tired of being nice. So terrified that I more than willingly would give up my standpoint for agreement. So terrified of the guilt that I did not even think it was me, but some evil thought I had to run away from, for the sake of those around me. They could not be bothered with who I was. Maybe I even had the idea that it was the hammer of patriarchy hammering down on me, oppressing me. If I could just lose these thoughts. If I could just finally somehow let go and be nice to everybody and fit in naturally.
I wonder, do they all feel that way? Look how Christian Grey, too, crumbles under guilt as he indulges in his desires.
But oh, why did it not work, why did I smile at and evilness. I had to resist until it would leave me alone.with her homework at school and then fap about raping her, shitting in her mouth or watching an animal take her? Evil me, evil me, no, it was the evil me who gave in to that
Oh, the wish for approval and agreement. The more I got, the more I needed.
Good wolve, bad wolve
It is ironic that I never even got the idea that my subdued respect me and empathize with. That even when men said that I had to embrace my masculinity, they surely did not mean the thoughts and emotions I was having.would be something that others could approve of or like me for. That my real thoughts about the world could make people
Surely, if anyone knew who I really was, they would cast me out and leave me to die.
Yeah, I know. As if they had any reason toabout what my fantasies were. As if they would do anything more than maybe think: Well man, you are a sick fuck.
But even accepting that was unthinkable.
So it is quite funny that what I most needed was approval of whom I was. And what I did to get it was to hide who I was. The more I needed that approval, the more I hid my true self. In a way, being rejected for being nice was more acceptable than being rejected for being me. So much for the theory. But I never felt like I really was that nice person I portrayed, so I felt inadequate and if somebody rejected me, I figured that I was not nice enough. Can you believe it? In the shadow of the ideal of niceness, forever unworthy of any true enlightened nice guy – normal person.
Ironically, I always just wished I could really be that nice without questioning it. Somehow ease into it. And there were moments in my life where I could. But all in all, they were rare.
More ironically, I figure that the more I tried to be nice, the more extreme my fantasies grew. The more I am accepting of my dark side, the less extreme it’s forms.
So what is the lesson of it all?
I guess the lesson is that my mother’s unconditional love stopped being unconditional the moment she attached a condition to it. When she begged me to be nice to her. Woe, but if you love me anyhow, why do I have to change for you?
Naturally, I always felt that something was wrong with me. When I got kicked out of school. When my mother could not handle me and sent me away to boarding school.
Oh, I promise, I promise, I promise. I promise I will be nice, if you only keep me with you, momma. I will kiss you and wash the dishes and do everything you want, if you only will not reject me, oh please, do not reject me.
And she would not reject me. Not too often.
And maybe she told her version of the truth when she said that she loved me. Maybe she, like me, thought that my masculinity was not a part of me, that it was an evil spirit. That she needed to protect me from it, mold me into something better, happier. That why she could not tolerate a serious face on me? Maybe .
So disconnected from my cosmic masculine energy, disconnected from the divine – yes indeed on a crusade against it, hating it – I could get what I wanted, my mother’s approval. Yet it was an autoimmune disease.
I figure that since I was disconnected from who I was, the approval could not mean anything.
I was among people, but I was lonely. Because it was not me who was among them, but .
And that is, I figure. You want approval, but you disconnect it from its meaning – living with integrity. You want sex, but you disconnect it from its meaning – expression of your masculinity. You distract yourself from being disconnected from yourself by getting approval for it. By proving to yourself that you are not. By believing that the true you is different from what you are experiencing, and maybe, one day, you can break out of masculinity and finally live that neutered life of a fag. Until then, you can say: Hey, if I am approved of, how can anybody say I am wrong?
But who are you lying to.
God of fury
And do not get me wrong about what I call divine.
I had been distracted from the meaning of the divine. Whatever the divine is, I ran away from it in panic when I confronted it. I called it the devil.
Just like divinity is not only about halos and white robes, expressing your emotions is not simply about being touchy and feely. It is about being you. The monster underneath that hides.
Do you fear the monster? Do you fear others will fear it? Do you fear what others will do to you if they fear the monster? But the monster is you. How else is it that you were not able to rid yourself of it? Because of patriarchy? Because of those around you who create it in you? How naive.
Just be yourself. If only that was so easy. Let me just suggest this great book to you: No More Mr. Nice Guy.
Imagine, mourn what you never had and move on?, what would your life have been like? Imagine, what can your life be like, now, that your mother no longer controls your life, now that you can
Is that divine something that just happens in my brain or is it real? Well, what does that question mean, really? Desire happens in your brain, too. You know it is chemicals, but does that make it less real? Does the knowledge of a clocks mechanical structure free it from its necessity to tick?