Jin Wicked is Sick of Shit, Vol 2

There is somehow, simultaneously, a lot going on at the moment, and a lot of nothing. I was reminded earlier this week of the need to choose your words carefully when I received a phone call the purpose of which, I am not sure. It seemed designed solely to anger and provoke me. I told this person I was drawing, but they insisted on interrupting me repeatedly, anyway. Inebriated rehashing and reheating of an incident that occurred earlier that day, and the rambling confessions that they knew deep down they would never keep their promises to me. Making flimsy excuses for how they had taken advantage of my forgiving nature and generosity, repeatedly, over and over… I could go on. Admitting you are a shitheel does not absolve you of your responsibility to do something about being a shitheel. And fuck, don’t then double-down on it.

But I remember, not that long ago, being the aggrieved and wounded party, grasping at straws desperately trying to justify both the incredible pain I felt, and lessen the guilt of the pain I had caused. I remember, so I listened.

“The thing I hated most about you — couldn’t stand about you, I think — but also had a lot of pride in, is that you are smarter than me.”

It is well-documented that many men struggle with intelligent and successful women. But here is the thing — your insecurity is not my responsibility to fix. Your insecurity is not a license to tear me down in front of mutual friends. It is not a license to act at times as if I do not exist in public or on social media. It is not a license to diminish the importance, value, or skill of my work. It is not a license to repay my debts last, disrespect my time, and treat me like one of your lowest priorities. It is not a license to criticize the efficient lifestyle I have created for myself. And if you care more about being perceived by others as a “fanboy” than visibly and vocally supporting the dreams of someone you claim to love, that’s your insecurity and your problem. I have to believe that there’s someone out there brave and bold enough to (however badly) sing together with me from the rooftops. If not, then I continue this journey alone.

My purpose is not to be your self-esteem booster, arm candy, trophy partner, salve for a wounded ego, or a proof of virility during your midlife crisis. I want an equal. I work harder than anyone I personally know. I am working eleven hour days at my day job (really), so that I can free more whole days for binge working on my art, comics, and other projects, and still sustain a certain level of income. I monitor every calorie going into my mouth and give up about six hours to the gym every week because I care about being healthy and looking my best. I relentlessly promote my work seven days a week in every venue I can find to be successful. I acknowledge my faults and work to address them. I have spent the past three years working on my own issues, anxieties, and insecurities, and I have no desire to go back. Resting on my laurels is not a thing that I do. There are always bigger fish to fry and steeper mountains to climb. If my accomplishments, growth, or success intimidate or threaten you, that is your insecurity to deal with. It is not a license to treat me poorly.

I say all this in the context of multiple relationships, throughout my life.

By all but the most conservative definitions, I am a Good Woman. I am caring, affectionate, compassionate, generous to a fault, honest, and loyal. I do not drink, do not use drugs, do not party, do not stay out late, and I will always let you know where I am, and who I am with. I pay attention. I will remember all your preferences and do things without having to be asked. I do not care how much money you make, as long as you pull your weight, and you work. I do not care about fancy houses, cars, or status symbols. I do not care about material things much, at all. Be able to make me laugh. Match my effort, clean up after yourself, and work to keep up with me. Really simple, but keeping up with me is not for the faint of heart. My vices are being a workaholic, a box of twelve cigarillos every few months, and bitching about television.

I feel like a fool. I feel like a fool for seeing the best in people. I feel like a fool for believing. I am tired. I am tired of crying. I am tired of meaningless words and broken promises. I am tired of my male “friends” who conveniently turn a blind eye and sweep it under the rug when it is their “bro” doing something wrong to a woman. I am tired of hearing “I want to help you,” and “I want to protect you,” from people who end up doing precisely the opposite.

I am tired of fighting to prevent the hardening of my heart.

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