Men still aren’t allowed, socially, to fully express themselves.
Already, my self-censorship sirens are ringing. I tell myself that I shouldn’t be expressing my feelings in such a literary fashion, that I should just go outside and chop some lumber for my non-existent fireplace.
I’ve recently come out of two relationships. The first one I feel was emotionally abusive, the other was the “relationship” (we were just dating really) after the abusive one.
Emotionally abusive? Yes. It wasn’t so much the words, more her actions, and the undercurrent of disdain I felt throughout our time together. I didn’t feel I would ever achieve self-actualisation. The other aspect, and this is undoubtedly not her fault, is the societal pressures of being a Man meant that I felt I needed to be a provider.
It is the second and most recent relationship that is affecting me though. I can unashamedly say that it was a Tinder match that brought us together. From past experiences, I have developed very low expectations of these. But we chatted for weeks on end, to the point where I was totally satisfied with it being a virtual friendship. But then she pushed, and I yielded. We met, and it was fucking awesome. I mean, this girl was so laid back and funny. She made me laugh, I hadn’t laughed in months.
I am really into her. I opened up. I thought I had found my Tinderella.
She had her baggage too, but she was completely honest about that from the outset, so I can’t hate on her for that. The big problem, I guess, was that I didn’t really make her laugh, which is unusual even if I say so myself, because I usually make everyone laugh. This I blame on my emotional hangover.
I just fell faster, and I’ve crash landed.
I’m an Australian male living in Hong Kong, emphasis required because it is my belief that Aussie males are on the upper notches of the masculinity scale. I get HKD$60 haircuts and use minimal styling products. I’m usually no nonsense and I don’t shirk from speaking my mind. In fact, even as I write this, I am flicking my attention between typing and the Super Rugby match on my cable subscription. On my couch. In my underwear. Tight game.
I’m really fucking sad.
That’s all I can tell people, any more would show my vulnerabilities. I have great friends, both male and female, and I would be in no way exaggerating if I said these friends are some of the best human beings on Earth. But I still can’t fully disclose how I feel. They have their own problems to deal with. They don’t need to listen to my psychoemotional shit. I can sense the judgement even if it is unintentional.
I am tempering the pain, yes it is pain, with lots of physical activity, mainly at the gym – there isn’t a lot of lumber to be cut in this part of Hong Kong – but I am also consuming more alcohol than I have ever really been comfortable with. The most worrying part is that I am enjoying the liquor. It brings temporary relief, and it brings sleep.
Perhaps it is my own fault. I was once engaged to be married. It was the most perfect relationship I have ever had. That relationship is the benchmark to which I hold all other subsequent relationships to measure. It’s not fair, but it was real. Really real. In fact, it is the reason I left my hometown. But I don’t believe in settling for anything less.
I am entitled to feel my feelings, but sometimes, I just don’t know if I can express them fully.
#melodramatic #hindsight #drunkwriting #hashtag
