Objectivity Review
My sister’s middle name was a translation of “spring beauty” while my brother’s was the family name. Mine was a wish for good fortune. That’s such a small difference of facts and a subtle shift in gender values but no matter how unintentional it was, I still think about it often. I later found out that my name, while accurately conveyed to me, would be equally well viewed as an homage to the last great warrior in our family history.
This has always been true, but the only implication I was ever left with was one where I needed to fight. A necessity to stand out and be noticeable was the only takeaway I ever really had, helped by the inherent singularity of my brother and the unique superiority granted my sister. I was simply me, and in comparison to them I would need to find a way to make that enough.
I’m not convinced I will ever achieve that.
The odd thing of objectivity relies upon the fact that truth itself is objective, an idea I neither agree with nor respect. When so many people have different ways to grow up and different literal heights to view the world from, to call truth objective would be a fallacy in and of itself. If the trees all have distinct leaves, but I can’t see them without glasses, how individual are those leaves if their collective is a beautiful blur?
The line between child and beautiful is a blur for me. I don’t know when I first knew that I was supposed to be a “pretty child” I just know that I was always compared to my sister and she was the pretty one, few people said as much but I had eyes then and I have eyes now. I was “pretty” but most so when compared to lesser children and the modeling contracts my mother swears she turned down.
Getting older, I knew I was smart and creative, just like my other siblings. I don’t know where the line was between being precocious and being better than the people around me. I have yet to find it.
When I was in high school I was too abrasive too loud too much for the people age appropriate to date, but enough of all of the above with a healthy sprinkling of cynicism and weariness to be ripe pickings for those far older than me.
It was an odd time of being seen as a specimen to be remarked upon by others while being shunned by my peers; being told from my freshman year that I was too singular for the people around me certainly didn’t help. Every moment of existence was an opportunity to feel alienated by those around me and feel unsure of what was and wasn’t real, as adults made sure to keep me comfortable in a cocoon of me being too much for the people around me.
It’s been eight years since I was an underage kid, desperate for attention and love in a world where I felt every potential handhold slip through my fingers. Now, I can legally rent a car and drink and own property but still can’t take a word from another person at face value.
Working in service and on the internet is only valuable because people who don’t know me validate my persona and my genetically predisposed appearance. It also gives fuel to the fire of not having anyone to rely on both willing to recognize every facet of the person I am and unwilling to believe those who purport that they do.
If I am so objectively easy to objectify and admire, why would some people not be interested in me? If that’s true, why would I care about the opinion of the handful of people existing outside the norm? Or are members of the first group not acting objectively, but rather with a secondary motivation? And is the latter troupe right or do they just seek to undermine me? And how could I ever trust someone that they are sincere if I can’t comb through their minds and find that to be true?
Every day is an exercise in embarrassment and guilt, regret and confusion. I’m so tired. I don’t trust anyone. My cat will die soon.