Recently I have been experiencing major anxiety over my relationships and interactions with my female friends. As I posted some days ago, I seem to have taken on the role of therapist among them. This would be okay if just one or another needed advice or a shoulder to cry on at any given time, but it has begun to eat up my whole life. As a friend of mine put it, they’ve become
I have to be strong so that he can be weak. Well, at least that’s the long and short of it. He’d rather not be here either. But we’ve just done the back and forth so many times. Had it ever worked out, we would have stayed. Honestly, had he never asked me to go with him to Tenerife in 2009, we still would probably be in Italy. Well, I would. Maybe it would all be different…
I happen to have lots of problems. I don’t know if it’s because of this or in lieu of this, but I seem to gather about me women with just as many issues. Whereas my problems are continuous – and generally kept under wraps – it seems like their lives, on sporadic occasion, blow up in their faces.
All at the same time.
I would like to talk some about what it means to be an American in the eyes of people I have met around the world and how it differs drastically from the way I feel about my heritage.
First of all, let me just say that while I hate being in the USA, I don’t necessarily hate my country. I just don’t fit in here. To put it simply,
a crappy American —
I’ve never fit in. I’ve never really had friends. I’ve never been “cool.” I’ve never been like everybody else. Unfortunately, I come from a beach part of the country, and I am just not made for the beach. Even when my weight was no longer an issue for me, I just can’t stand the sun. It’s hot. It’s uncomfortable. It’s the sun. Don’t get me wrong, I am a water sign, and I love the water, but I just can’t stand beach culture. Or, for that matter, heatstroke…