The Price of Admission

I’ve never been comfortable talking about stuff like this because I find it hard to get my thoughts out properly and if I do try, I only end up misinterpreting my own words, and worse, end up writing something completely asinine.

What can I say, shit like this has never been my cup-of-tea, nor will it ever be. I’m not a huge fan of spilling my guts on some “blog” for everyone’s viewing pleasure, just so they can dissect my words and think that I’m some kind of unstable emotional-wreck.

Nope. That’s not my style. I prefer the laid back image; the happy-go-lucky guy who loves to write about sports. It’s what I’m good at and it helps keep me sane. To those who know me, writing something pitifully emotive like this is completely out of character.

But then again, you won’t see a wind-up mechanism on my back, either, like those cheap toys you find in the market. I still have feelings too.

So before I end up drowning on my sorrows, allow me to attempt to fill the pages of this blog with a sullen confession, of sorts - written from my “full-sized aortic pump,” as Joey Tribbiani would say.

It seems like the first and the hardest risk we can take is to be honest with ourselves.

Let the truth be told then: I was never good at relationships. For a lack of a better term, I sucked at it.

While I will not try to shoulder all the blame for my misfortunes, I shall not act as if I am clean of any transgressions either. After all, it does take two people to make a relationship work; but it only takes one to mess it up. More often than not, and this is what pains me to admit the most, is that I was guilty of being the one who messes everything up. Back then, the idea of building up a relationship appealed to me more than the idea of maintaining one. It may have been, and it probably still is, idiotically flawed, but that’s how it worked for me.

In retrospect, I’ve spent so many nights staring blankly in space, thinking that if I could have mustered up enough cojones then to make a relationship last, maybe everything would have turned out different today. Maybe the 22 year old wont be reaping the sins laid out by the foolishness of the 18 year old.

But that’s not how my story goes.

The reality is that no matter how hard I try to convince myself that I can draw from my past experiences and learn from them, the more it becomes clear that any attempts of conjuring up inspiration was like trying to draw water from a well in the middle of the Gobi. I had nothing.

Try as I may to look back on my relationships and think about the lessons I learned, experiences I treasured, and memories I cherished – the more I realize that I hadn’t learned anything, I had no treasured experiences, and the only memories I’ve made are those that I’d rather forget.

It’s a bitter realization, I’ll tell you that. Enough to shake up my confidence, develop self-doubt, and have lingering thoughts of maybe not being good enough.

Or maybe I wasn’t good enough to begin with.