I’ve only met a handful of people in my life who can handle me. The number of people who claim they can do it far exceeds the number of people who actually can, and that shouldn’t be a surprise.
I’m essentially that 35-scoop ice cream sundae at the restaurant that everyone tries to finish for a free T-shirt.
In the winner’s circle, you’ll find people like my mother. She’s an Aries who lied to me as a child, feigning Pisces (which really tells you everything you need to know). I was forged in flames that she kept burning brightly with a fuel of narcissistic abuse. Sometimes, she couldn’t stand to look at me—see me survive. I don’t blame her.
In this same circle, you’ll find people who were fully capable of handling me, but chose not to for personal reasons. Some people realized I was more trouble than I was worth. Others recognized that they would simply rather be doing something else with their time. Again, I can’t blame them.
The winner’s circle, however, remains rather exclusive. The group of people who can say they championed the 35-scoop ice cream sundae rarely changes. At the same time, these individuals have found themselves a part of another club — one that declines to wear the free T-shirt for unsaid but mutually understood reasons. They’ve all met the same fate after entering my life, which is to say that — for one circumstance or another — they are no longer in it.
Because of this, I rarely find myself reflecting on the winners who’ve had their scoop of the sundae. What’s there left to say? I can’t imagine any of them find me interesting anymore, either, now that they’ve figured me out — but the losers ironically find themselves in a similar situation.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a line of challengers out the door, waiting to approach the metaphorical ice cream sundae. Not all of them have been cis hetero-males — there have been plenty of females, who I’d argue can be more vicious after failing to claim victory. Every losing situation, however, has ended the same way: after realizing there is little we can do for each other in terms of satisfying needs of varying degrees, I say goodbye to spare the both of us. I’m not going to play the victim card, but I want to note that I often recognize this far sooner than the ice cream lover at hand, and it becomes surprisingly difficult to wrap up. This is on top of the fact that, generally speaking, I’m terrible at saying goodbye (I’m working on abiding by the campfire rule, I promise).
At the end of the day, it’s not the winners or the losers who live rent-free in my mind.
It’s the challengers who are still digging into that sundae, failing to pause and breathe in between bites.
With every flavor they unlock with their tastebuds, their brain has to make a decision in a nanosecond — do I like what’s on my tongue, or is it too bitter to swallow again? The sundae consists of dozens of flavors, all of which will force the brain to reassess each time a new one hits the palette. Eventually, some people tap out and accept forfeiting the free T-shirt. Other people make it to the end, only to hate themselves and question what they’ve just done by choice. I’ve yet to find a person who has finished the sundae and left fully satisfied, but it’s this spirit of competition that keeps me engaged. I watch the movement of their eyes every time a new flavor sends their brains into a frenzy. I try to remember each facial expression to determine who has the best chance of making it to the end.
After all, I like ice cream, too. One day, I want nothing more than to be able to add that final cherry on top.
