I had come to a point where I realized I was worthless. No one needed me. Worse, I was hurting them merely by being around. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to suffer more. I wanted to be invisible; alone while surrounded by people. I wanted a gutter to lie in and to have no one pick me up out of it. Instead, they would splash more dirty, fishy-smelling water over me.
As I saw it, the rules were against me. I couldn’t live with only the love a wife could give me. I needed other women to love me, because if they did, then maybe I wasn’t so worthless, after all. Besides which, my wife wasn’t loving me, anyway.
I don’t think the social construct is going to change. I don’t think I can change it, and even if I did, it wouldn’t work. The construct is evolving to adapt to new circumstances, but it has remarkable stability. The forms may change, but the content is the same.
I can be a hermit if I want. It’s my choice. If I want to hurt myself, it’s my choice. I understand that when I do want to hurt myself, it’s not really me who wants that. I do it, perhaps, to spite the society as I see it.
I guess I don’t have to do that, but sometimes my brain goes wrong, and that’s what I want to do.
The answer, I believe, does not lie in hermitude. Engagement. That’s what I need. I need to engage with this construct, with this society, with these people. I may not get what I want—but it a strange way, not getting what I want is what I want. If I open myself to what is here, I can dance with it. I may step on her toes, and she may bang my shins, but we’ll learn to dance more better. There’s really not much choice in the matter, anyway.