I made my wife cry tonight. We were talking about general stuff and I started talking about how sick and tired I was of being told I should be a nice, kind person.
Which is not the real issue, but that’s at the surface.
I feel pressure to be some amazing guy. A great husband and exemplary worker. An amazing friend. A good son. A courtesy stranger. A citizen of my community. A knowledgeable voter. A philanthropist. Giver. Kind. Putting goodness into the world.
Ugh. Why do *I* have to put goodness into the world? Why me? Why do I need to work harder and be kinder and do more for others? No one else is. No one else is kind or selfless.
The real thing is that I feel guilty all the time. Guilty for my taste. Guilty for not being more than what I am. Guilty for my sex and race. I feel like a villain. A criminal. A perpetrator. I don’t do enough and I look like the kind of people that enact injustice.
I want to be left alone. I’m sensitive. I take it all to heart. I genuinely think I am garbage. Human garbage.
All this made her cry. So I apologized.
For the first time ever, I’m worried she might not always love me. It will be my fault. The villain’s fault.