Prose before hos

 I think the timing of trying to make headway with what I write here couldn't be better. On one hand, I call myself a "strategist: content" and devise solutions for readers and others, and on the other hand, I struggle to think about what do I put here. Do I write the first deranged thought that pops in my head and hope for it to pass like a fart or do I tweet it and release the urge to say nonsense? 

To be fair, I did well with this page. I always thought this would go out when I go out but somehow I managed to fuck this relationship. It's the only one that matters outside of the one I have with my family— my blog and I have persevered through the shitstorms including school, colleges, jobs, heartbreaks, boyfriend woes, and friendship blues. We've seen great times together through bad writing and bad times together through good writing. It's an odd sort of a relationship in a way that when I felt I improved as a writer, I stopped coming here to pour my heart out. It felt our relationship had nothing left.

Until last night, in an act of self-preservation and seeking answers to some long-pending closures, I found myself rummaging through the posts of 2013. It's true that I unpublished a chunk of content between 2007-2013 but it's also true that I am cleaning my history as we go along. There will come a time, this page will be a dead, decaying landfill of memories past and I won't remember any of it. Maybe for the best. 

Anyway, the 2013 archive was an eye-opener in many ways. For one, I wrote consistently. I was surprised at the frequency of posting and the ability to write that well for a 22-year-old who was struggling to cope with the very first episode of first-hand heartbreak and loss of good friendships. I was also amazed at the maturity I had shown despite dying daily. If I look back, I remember very little of the good times however, the blog has all of it. What I do, however, remember is all of my bad times and the blog contains very little about them. 

In a way, that's been a pattern; this whitewashing of my own emotions is wild. I saw someone had recently whitewashed a lived reality, as recent as a week ago and I was amazed at their tenacity. To a large extent, being brain dead does it to you but it's also a result of when you spend your time all to your convenience and just for yourself. In that case, what's a reality and what's an illusion? It's all a beautiful creation of your convenience. I could be sitting in the room and tweeting, "Just touched grass 20/10 experience, highly recommend!" But, did I really touch any grass and disconnect from my convenience? 

One of my favourite activities in the last few months has been a very interesting thing— I post situational questions on Google and get answers. These questions could be vague; case in point—

"narc discard"

"do narcs come back after they find a new supply"

"narcs relationship boundaries"

While the others are a tad bit detailed—

"any regrets if narc partner cheated and we broke up"

"narc discard final signs"

"can narcs have meaningful relationships with new supply"

"narc dating new supply does he think of old supply"

To an adult who grew up with the dial-up internet in the country, it may seem like an abhorring waste of time, but to me, it's working better than any other coping mechanism. You'd imagine I am researching a new book or something when in reality I am trying to make sense of a year-long relationship that was such hogwash, I couldn't see when I was being lied to, cheated on, gaslit and my favourite, stonewalled. For a year, someone did everything in their capacity to emotionally control me, manipulate me and guilt trip me into doing things I would never do and I found only love to give out. 

It's also surprising that I, a notorious commitment-phobe, once again found myself hanging on to every word of a man because he made me smile and laugh and helped me feel good for like maybe a week in my life. If I go back to recounting everything this assfaced clown put me through, the bad outweighs the good and all that I am left to ask is, do I really hate myself so much that the first person I entrusted my faith to and let my walls down for turned out to be a lying, cheating piece of shit, a whole walking narcissistic red flag who can't keep it in his pants? 

Knowing me, I would Google this question in a clearer, short format: 

"trauma bonded with narc how do I move on?"

The only good thing about this end is that Google has answers to everything. Well, most things, anyway. Google told me he's done with me for good cause I have figured out his game. Google also told me he's admitted to the infidelity cause he is done with me and he chose to tell me cause I serve no purpose. Google informed me that he is never who he says he is; he lifts his personality from other people and everyone is expendable to him and serves the purpose of making him shine. All of this is true. Even the no personality bit is true (him using her expression of disgust, yuck).

What makes me wonder about this entire situation is is he aware of what he's doing or is it a mental illness and that he sees no reason? His lies, hypocrisy, inconsistent stories, his claims of being "single" while he's sniffing the depts of her armpits virtually, it's truly a sight to watch even when I have drawn my blinders in all directions. Like a peacock would flaunt his feathers and dance, he does the same to show his mentality. "Look ma, no hands" and jumps up and down on a couch to show her love and goes out of his way to prove he can't get enough of her. 

Part of me sees nothing to blame her but the other part is clear- she knows, she knows. She, obviously, knows. It doesn't matter whether she does or not but because she does (cause nobody is that dumb, we know what's happening here; he's gaslighting her about me and he gaslit me about her; he's telling her I am unstable and that poor guy had to suffer so much and he's using that state of vulnerability to flirt with her and she flirts back cause he laughs at her jokes and likes her shit and so on). Basically, she knows it all. I've never met a woman in 30+ years who has not known when a guy is being friendly or hitting on her. I've seen him play this game with me and now he's taken the extension to her. Leftover. 

Knowing this isn't enough because somehow Google cannot help me know a relationship, especially one between them that's built on the graveyard of my memories with him:

"how soon until he makes sure she says I love you?"

"Does she know he has a massive mommy kink and that he's into her cause she's a less hot version of me?"

"Does she know that he has an old Indian woman kink and that he looks at her like his mommy?"

"Is narc's new supply better or worse? How do I get out of there"

Some questions cannot be answered by Google and only your time and experience can help you with closure. I am fully here for it. 

There's a rat caught in the rat trap in my room who is gnawing at a piece of old bread. There's noise and anger and also a sense of "what the fuck why am I here?" We share that with each other. I feel like I am trapped in a world where I have no business, I am being fed stale crumbs of news and I should just want to bite and run but no, entrapment is the life here. 

If you think the rat could Google, would it ask for the strategy to leave the rat trap to cause havoc in human life or would it ask to run in the opposite direction? I feel like a rat trapped in a cage with stale food. I hate it here.