I’ve never been good with emotion. I have them, sure, but they don’t ever
move far from the middle. When someone does something that I don’t like, I
get upset, but I don’t get mad. As the date of an event that I’m interested
in attending approaches, I feel enthusiastic, but not excited. I never lash
out, or cry, or squee, or anything like that. I don’t have a problem with
other people doing all such things; their emotional reactions don’t annoy
me, but I bother them with my lack thereof. My first
girlfriend deliberately let herself get caught cheating on me with another
guy. I wasn’t happy that she did it, but I easily let it go, and didn’t
break up with her. Of course, she broke up with me, because I wasn’t
passionate enough, and that’s when I realized that I needed to find someone
who didn’t need too much attention. I was never able to, and I eventually
decided that it wasn’t fair for me to lead my partners on, and make them
feel like there was hope for the two of us. It’s mostly been fine, but
unfortunately, it became a problem when my last ex-girlfriend reached out,
and revealed that I had a nine-year-old daughter. She was with another man
shortly after we were together, and the two of them had always assumed that
he was the father. The girl even looked a little like him, so it didn’t
occur to them to get a DNA test. They only did it recently when there was a
medical issue that required some background information that didn’t match up
right. So it was no one’s fault, and the mother felt comfortable breaking
the news to me, because she knew that I would not take it poorly. The
problem was I couldn’t ignore this new child, but I also couldn’t be a good
father to her either. More than math and language skills, kids learn
emotional intelligence from their caregivers. Even I know that. I decided to
seek professional help. It went a little too well. It would even say it
broke me.
I tried a few therapists, each one of them deciding that I needed to be
referred to someone else. Again, it wasn’t anybody’s fault, but they had to
dig a little deeper to find out what my problem was, and the next layer
always fell beyond their expertise. I ended up with a world-renowned
hypnotist, known for managing to get through even the most steadfast of
skeptics. As far as the technique went in general, I wasn’t a skeptic, but
hypnotism often involves latching onto some kind of emotional trigger, and
as you know by now, there’s not much of that there with me. At least, I
didn’t think that there was. It’s like there was a switch in my brain
that accidentally got turned off when I was young, and never got turned back
on. I saw a TV show about that once—three of them, actually—where it makes
vampires worse than they usually are. I didn’t go on a killing spree, but I
did go a bit crazy. I destroyed my hypnotist’s office. All of my emotions
from the last 29 years of my life came flooding into my mind all at once.
Everything I might have felt got locked away without me even realizing it,
and now they were unleashed. After the initial shock wore off, and I paid
for the damages, the hypnotist referred me to yet another psychologist, who
could help me deal with my newfound feelings. She suggested I channel them
into art, even though I’ve never been much into it, because I wasn’t capable
of seeing the beauty. As it turns out, I’m not half-bad as a painter. I put
everything I’m feeling onto the canvas, but it’s not about the fabric, the
paint, or even the images. What I’m doing is unloading my burdens onto the
easel...to ease my pain. It’s been working well, and I think I
have a decent relationship with my daughter now.
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