If Ginsberg didn't feel like having the lights on, Ned isn't going to switch them on just for his own comfort. Besides, now that he can see well enough to avoid touching anything unexpected, he doesn't mind the dimness. In a way, it's easier for him, too. Serious conversations somehow seem suited to the dark. and he doesn't want to set up a pattern where Ginsberg feels he needs to compromise his comfort for Ned's sake at a time like this.
He sets aside the question of when Ginsberg will come out, of what his coworkers are thinking, sets aside the revelation that it's not the first time he's done this. The script that Ginsberg seems to anticipate he'll follow is not the one he has in mind.
"It's not the first time I've locked myself in a closet, either." It is, he thinks, the first time he's done so for this particular reason, though. He is seized with a fleeting but intense feeling of inadequacy and unpreparedness. What if he does the wrong thing and makes matters worse? What if he only causes Ginsberg more pain?
But he has practice at shoving aside such thoughts, and does so with alacrity. Ginsberg's standing a fair distance away from him (or at least, as much as the cramped closet will allow). Ned, cautiously, takes a step closer. He's still getting his bearings, trying to suss out what might upset Ginsberg further.
Because the more he can see, the more Ned can tell that he's not doing alright at all. He's never seen Ginsberg like this, never heard him like this. It actually, physically hurts, but for once Ned is successful at masking what he feels on his face. He's got to keep a lid on it, for fear of making Ginsberg even more of a mess.
"Nothing really happened. We're just working on this ad. A ketchup thing. It's stupid. Ketchup shouldn't upset anyone. Everyone was pitching ideas, and you know how ketchup is, it's one of those things where people want the ads to be happy. Summertime, kids at camp, family vacations, that kind of bullshit. Which I'm not actually sure anyone does, but that's what the ketchup guys want in their ads. Happiness. Family values. Nothing dark. I kind of like the dark ads, but I can do the light ones, too. It shouldn't have been a problem."
Except, from the way he stares at the ceiling and then suddenly slumps down into a cross legged, slouchy position on the floor, something obviously had gone wrong. He's talking fast, aware of how ridiculous he sounds, wanting to get all of this out before Ned has the regelation that he's crazy and leaves the closet, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
"But then we started talking about what the ad should be, and people started talking about their first memories, and they all have something, even if the memories aren't that detailed. Something from when they're two or three, something they can spin out into a good story about fucking ketchup. And then they wanted me to talk about mine, because I'm supposed to be the genius, or whatever, but I couldn't think of anything. Nothing at all. Big blank spot."
He has to reorient his mind to the kind of situation he's dealing with, rewrite his half-formulated strategy on the ground. He wouldn't classify what Ginsberg's talking about as nothing happening - clearly it was something, and a big something - but what he'd been expecting had been a bit more tangible. An unusually-hurtful insult from a boss, a botched meeting with a client, a fight with his father, that kind of thing. This is both bigger and more difficult to know how to handle.
"That sounds pretty terrifying."
Ned hates towering when Ginsberg is sitting on the floor like that, looking so fragile and so far away. He sits down, too, setting the pie box between them and wrapping his arms around his knees, not near enough to Ginsberg to be threatening.
"They might have been making theirs up?" But Ned knows that suggestion will solve little to nothing, mentally pinches himself for being inept at this. This isn't about his coworkers and their ability to paste themselves into that picture of happiness, family values, and ketchup. It seems to be about the fact that Ginsberg can't. He recovers as best as he can, "Did they bug you about it?"
"No. I just ended up making something up. It sounded plausible, I guess. And only Peggy knew it was total bullshit. It'll probably be in the ad. My completely fake story about my completely fake childhood. And that isn't usually enough to bother me, but I got to thinking, and you know how dangerous thinking is... Everything just starts to unravel, and soon enough, you're a complete mess, because you realize that you don't actually know anything. Anything about yourself, anything about anyone else. And then you start wondering whether you exist at all."
At least, that's the route his downward spirals tend to take. He doesn't scoot closer to Ned when he joins him on the floor, but he also doesn't scoot away, and in this mood, that's as much of a tacit sign that someone's welcome as saying it out loud.
"I know it sounds crazy to you. It sounds crazy to me, too. Usually I'm a different person when I'm working on an ad. A confident guy. You probably wouldn't recognize me. By the time I was done telling my bullshit story, though, I could hardly breathe. I had to come in here."
He files away the fact about Peggy being the one who could tell he was inventing, though whether it's through knowledge about Ginsberg's past or an ability to tell when he's lying, Ned doesn't know.
That downward spiral sounds eerily, even unsettlingly familiar to Ned. He wouldn't have thought, for any problems he might have, that Ginsberg would have felt that kind of radical, fundamental self-doubt. He's never met anyone who has before, or who has admitted to it. Oh, there were plenty of folks with their identity crises, not wanting to be who their parents wanted them to be, feeling lost in an indifferent world that had no place for their unique selves. But they took for granted certain assumptions about themselves that Ned couldn't. He wonders what it is about Ginsberg that makes him different from the rest. But he's not here to solve the other man, like some kind of puzzle. He's here to help him out of the dark, to re-ravel him.
"It sounds a lot less crazy than you'd think." He pauses, choosing his words with care, "I can see why you'd want to come here, and why you wouldn't want to leave. There are no distractions in here, and no one watching you, which is good when you feel like you don't even know which way is up or down, right?"
Ned might have shared a similar doubt, but that doesn't mean he has a solution at hand, some method of dealing with it to recommend. He wishes he did. Truth is, when he started to think too much about his life or his identity or the impossibility of it all, he made pies until he ran out of ingredients. That's not gonna work, for Ginsberg. But neither is just sitting here in the dark, letting that momentum carry him further down the spiral.
"Is it any help if I tell you I'm pretty sure you exist?" He holds out his hand in offer, to reinforce that solidity, to give Ginsberg something to hold onto. "Even if everything else is a bit undecided, that's somewhere to start, isn't it?"
"It helps a little. Unless you don't exist, either. If you're just a figment of my imagination, you'd probably want to tell me I existed, so I wouldn't decide neither of existed and will both of us away entirely. But I'm pretty sure you exist, too, so maybe we're okay."
That said, and apparently decided, he takes Ned's hand firmly, squeezing it a little, as though all the answers he's looking for can be found just from holding onto Ned's hand tightly and trying to concentrate on the fact that Ned's here to help him, that Ned cared enough to come here to try to talk him through this. It's only partially effective; his breathing is still quick, and even in the dimly lit closet, it's probably obvious to Ned that his face is white with stress.
"I feel sick," he mutters, and that's really no surprise, if he's been locked in a dark closet for five hours, worrying and obsessing and spending all of his time inside his own mind. "I keep thinking... I just keep thinking about what I said, that I don't know who anyone is, that I don't know who I am, and then I think about how much you wouldn't like me if you knew who I am, either. Do you ever think about that? How you're the pie guy and I'm the ad guy and we have these roles we fulfill and maybe we're a little weird but that stops people from asking the really serious questions, because you can just chalk it all up to weirdness, but then if you dig deep, at least for me, there're all kinds of messy things in there and I don't think the pie guy would really like the ad guy if he knew him all that well. So maybe you shouldn't be here, either, because I really want you to like me."
Ned squeezes Ginsberg's hand back, doesn't intend to let go for anything. He can feel how clammy and shaky that hand is, hear in Ginsberg's voice the tightly-controlled panic. Though Ned knows the basic stuff - not to tell him to just calm down, or to just not think about it - he's not sure what else to do. But then Ginsberg keeps talking, and he can definitely listen. He's good at listening.
The doubts and insecurities that Ginsberg explains could have been taken from his own brain on certain sleepless nights. It would be remarkable, maybe even funny, if everything didn't feel so deathly serious.
"I do like you. A lot. Probably too much, actually. When Peggy called I ran the whole way to the subway station, and then the whole way here. It's true that I don't know everything about you yet, but I like every single thing I have learned so far. I like that you love your job despite everything. I like that peach pie is your favorite, and I like that you're terrible at dates. I like that you speak your mind even if it means getting hit. I like that you're so much sweeter than you seem to realize and that you've never made me feel like a freak."
Ned doesn't worry, in this moment, about laying it on too thick. If their roles were reversed, he knows he'd be only too happy (secretly, desperately) to hear these sorts of things. He wraps a second hand around Ginsberg's, for emphasis, holding it tightly. "I like that you worry about the sorts of things I worry about. I'm not afraid to learn the not-so-nice things I don't know yet. I'd be a lot more afraid if I found out it was all neat and tidy memories of family values and ketchup, because how could a guy like that possibly understand a guy like me?"
He scoots a little closer, cautiously, keeping watch for any sign that he's crossed some imaginary line and should move back once more. "I can't make promises for anyone else, but I'm pretty sure I can handle the mess. Takes one to know one, and all of that. So I think you're wrong. I think the pie guy will still like the ad guy, even if he finds out bad things have happened to him, or that he's done things he regrets."
For a moment, he just listens to what Ned says, clinging tightly to his hand like it's a life-preserver and he's drowning. And it might as well be, because right now he's in one of those states where he's not sure what's real and what's not. He feels fairly certain that he and Ned are real, but beyond that, the thoughts that run through his mind and make him feel like this are hard to pin down and very, very messy.
It's obvious from the way he's staring at Ned, eyes wide, that nobody's ever quite said things like that to him during a time he feels like this. Sure, people have told him the usual stuff: calm down, you're okay, even little pep talks that had momentarily buoyed his spirits, about how he wasn't a terrible person, about how everything would work out. Those never solved any problems, but sometimes they got him to think about something other than the darkness in his own mind. But what Ned's saying is bigger than that; it's about him, and it's specific, and it's all about how Ned likes him. Likes what he knows, at least. Wants to know more. Doesn't seem afraid of the things he might learn, if it all comes spilling out, which seems more and more likely.
"Do you ever..." he begins, wondering why it's always so much easier to begin his sentences as a question to Ned, or to someone else, as a desperate way to make sure that he's not the only one that thinks about these kinds of things. Unfortunately, the response to his do you ever questions is all too often 'no,' with the accompanying blank stare that lets him know just how crazy the recipient of the question thinks he is. Somehow, though, he doesn't think Ned will respond that way. Somehow, he thinks, even if Ned hasn't experienced the things he's asking, he'll phrase it in a way that doesn't alienate Ginsberg further.
"Do you ever think that... I mean, you said I was sweet, but I don't think I'm sweet at all. I think I can be sweet on the outside, but I don't think that's who I am on the inside. Are you ever afraid of who you are on the inside? Sometimes I can't stop thinking about that, about how there're these... it's like there're voices inside my head, all the time, telling me what terrible things I'm capable of, and they're not things I want to do, but I'm scared of doing them. You like that I speak my mind even if it means getting hit, but I don't hit back because what if I really, really hurt someone? What if I killed someone? And I know I could. I know this all sounds crazy, like I'm some kind of lunatic, and you probably wanted to run out of here the minute I said there were voices in my head, but sometimes I think we all have voices like that, the ones that tell us how awful we are. And sure, you'd like me if you found out bad things had happened to me, but would you like me if you knew that I was probably just a terrible, harmful person waiting to explode?"
Ned doesn't reply for a few seconds, not because Ginsberg has frightened him, but because it's yet again eerie how well acquainted he is with that particular kind of worry. There's so much he wants to say, so many reassurances to give and questions to answer. But he approaches it in a slow way, because Ginsberg's racing at a mile a minute, and Ned senses the delicacy of this moment for the two of them. He doesn't want to fumble his words out of haste.
"I didn't tell you I went back to the museum, after our date. The day after. No one recognized me or anything. That... that display case I pushed that guy into? There was a crack in the glass. That's how hard I slammed him into it." He'd intended on never telling Ginsberg that, hadn't wanted to. But now he thinks, it might provide a certain solidarity. "I was so angry at him for hitting you - for hitting me, too - that I could have really hurt him. I... I might have, if things had gone differently."
He scoots closer still, so that their knees are touching, and he can look Ginsberg in the eyes as he says, "I don't think you're crazy, and I'm not going anywhere." Carefully, he reaches a hand across the distance and cups Ginsberg's cheek. Sure, Ned might not necessarily phrase it as voices in his head telling him he's awful, but for all he knows Ginsberg is talking about the exact same thing he's felt, and just describing it in different terms.
"Being afraid of what I'm capable of is kind of my default state of being. I wake up every day terrified that someone will get hurt and it'll be my fault, so I know that it's an awful thing to worry about. But that doesn't make you a lunatic, and it doesn't make you a terrible person. If you ask me, it makes you a good person. Good people aren't good because they can't do any harm, or because they don't ever want to. They're good because they decide to be good, every single day. If you ask me, it's what you do that decides who you are, so acting sweet on the outside is exactly the same as being sweet."
Ned runs his thumb along Ginsberg's cheekbone, heart breaking at the thought of him tangled up in all that worry and fear when he's been kinder to Ned than anyone he's known for a long, long time. "And everyone slips up now and then, even good people, and that's okay. You just have to live with it as best as you can, and start over trying to be good the next day."
It's amazing how well Ned seems to understand all of this, like Ned's had these thoughts, too, and from the sound of it, he has. The fact that he'd slammed the guy into the glass so hard that it had cracked doesn't necessarily surprise him, nor does it scare him; on the contrary, he's almost glad to hear it, because that means that Ned really can relate, isn't just saying empty things because that's what's expected of him.
"I can try to be good all I want," he finally says, reassured by Ned's continued physical contact, by the fact that it's dark and quiet in the closet. He knows that his coworkers are likely wondering what they're doing in here, what they're talking about, but he's glad they're leaving them alone to talk. Peggy's doing, most likely. If it were up to Bob, he doesn't doubt the closet door would have been broken down by now. "But no matter how hard I try to be good, to be kind, I'm still part of something awful. I can't sleep at night sometimes because I start thinking about all the terrible things I do, even though I don't do them directly."
He knows that requires more explanation, but thinking about it makes his head hurt, so he has to take a pause and take a big breath, trying to steady himself. The things Ned's saying make sense, are reasonable, are even soothing, but it's hard to accept all of those things when his mind is racing a mile a minute. "I think about you slamming that guy into the display case and there's something about it that makes me happy. And that shouldn't ever make me happy. I should be glad you defended me, but feel bad for the guy, or worried that he got hurt. You were obviously worried that you'd hurt him, when it happened."
Turning his face away from Ned now, he seems to be addressing the shelves full of paper and pencils and cleaning supplies. "I talk about hating the war. Hating the companies that use their money or their products to support the war. But then we do ads for them, and I take the paycheck even though I know it's dirty money, and I tell myself 'it's just a job, I'm not a bad person, I'm not hurting anyone,' but that's what everyone says, that's what anyone who allows bad things to happen says. That's how the Nazis tried to defend themselves, too. 'Just a job.' So how does that make me any better, when I know I help companies hurt people? You don't do that. You make pie. Pie doesn't hurt people."
It actually, physically hurts when Ginsberg turns away like that. Ned knows what it is, to hate yourself so much you can't look another person in the face. But Ginsberg doesn't deserve to hate himself so much for so little.
"Not necessarily," Ned knows it's a stretch, but he isn't sure how else to comfort Ginsberg, how else to make him feel better, "The companies I buy fruit from probably cheat and exploit their workers, only I haven't had the courage to look them up and check, because even if they do, I have to buy fruit from someone. Just like you have to make ads for someone. That doesn't make you a- a Nazi. You have to see that. You're not writing propaganda for the war, and you're not working for the government, and you're not hurting people directly, so there is a difference. There's a big one."
There's something so daunting about all this, and Ned has a moment of self-doubt. Is this really the right route to take, or will it sound like he's just invalidating Ginsberg's feelings? But he doesn't know what else to do.
"The war's too big for you, Ginsberg. You're not going to be able to stop it single-handed by quitting your job, or keep it going by writing a great ad for a horrible company. You're not that important. That doesn't mean you're just allowing bad things to happen."
He hesitates, weighing the options before him. Will baring his own burdens really help to Ginsberg to bear his? Or will he merely worsen the other man's conviction that everyone is rotten on the inside, in one way or another? In the end, Ned decides to risk it.
"And even if pie doesn't hurt people... I have. So I know what I'm talking about."
He could be saying I know to anything, but what he's really agreeing to is that he knows that he's not that important, that nothing he does really has an impact in the big scheme of things. It's logical, and it makes sense to him, and it's the kind of thing he'd tell someone else and really mean it, but it's amazing how logical things can be so difficult to comprehend when applied to oneself. All the rules he has for other people, all the ideas he has about them, those all go out the door when they're applying to him.
"You've hurt people?"
He doesn't necessarily know what Ned means by that, and that's why he turns his head back to look at him curiously. Maybe Ned means physically, like the guy he'd slammed into the display case. Maybe he means emotionally, because it's pretty damn hard to go through life without hurting at least one or two people emotionally, no matter how hard you try. Maybe he means something else entirely. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want. Maybe it's enough just to know that I'm not the only one. Not the only terrible person. Not that you're terrible, I don't mean that at all, but not the only one who worries about this kind of thing."
And there he goes again, fumbling his way through sentences he's not sure how to articulate, making it all sound worse than it really is. He knows that he has a flair for the dramatic, that he's likely panicking about something that nobody else would even give a second's thought to, but he doesn't think he can help it. For better or for worse, this is how his brain works. It's exhausting.
He's startled to find that tears have sprung to his eyes, and he swipes at his eyes angrily with the sleeve of his sweater. The last thing he needs is to cry in front of Ned. This is already bad enough, and although he's generally more comfortable being emotional than most people, crying is another level of unpleasantness. Surely, even if Ned hasn't judged him so far, he'd judge him for that.
"I just hate knowing..." He hesitates, and then spills it all out in a long stream of words that practically run together. "I hate knowing that if I hadn't been born, my mother, whoever the hell she was, would probably still be alive. I mean, I don't know that for sure, because how could I, but she'd've had a better chance. I hate knowing that my existence hurt someone. Just existing. Not even doing anything. Not even consciously. Just the act of being here."
When Ginsberg asks that question and looks back at him, Ned only nods. He never intended on going into the matter much more than that simple declaration that he had hurt people before. Just that is a large enough step, for him. Just that is enough to have him nervous. Besides, he didn't come here to talk about himself.
His chest aches when he sees Ginsberg wiping away tears. Ned's never been much good at seeing other people in pain or distress, even if they were strangers. To see Ginsberg fighting back tears like that is so much worse than he would have imagined, and that's before he says what he does about his mother.
They've finally coming to it, to the thing at the roof of all these different strands: Ginsberg's response in the meeting, his feeling of dread and unreality, his fear that he's a bad person, his horror of hurting others. But it turns out that at this most crucial of moments, words absolutely fail Ned. He's accustomed enough to speaking with people about their mothers, even their dead mothers, and doing so with the emotional distance necessary to keep himself safe. He wasn't expecting this, however, and it cuts into him deep, from out of nowhere. Ginsberg blames himself for his mother's death. Well. That's something Ned can relate to, too.
Only he can't seem to find his voice to say that. And besides, what would he even say? What words could possibly be enough? He can't tell Ginsberg it isn't his fault, though he doesn't think it is, because that strikes Ned as not his right (besides which, he wouldn't trust his voice). So he does something that's out of character for him and gathers Ginsberg into an embrace, sudden and fierce, holds him as if he could banish everything bad in just that one act. Ned knows that he's shaking, now, but he doesn't care Ginsberg if notices. He'll say something, something reassuring, something wise and logical, when he can.
When Ned doesn't respond, his immediate response is a sinking feeling, a completely hopeless one, like now he's gone and said all the things he shouldn't have and Ned will get up and leave because how could he possibly deal with someone so pathetic, someone so incapable of simply going on with their lives like a normal human being? If he were normal, he wouldn't worry about things like this. He doesn't think his coworkers do, although of course they all have problems of their own. They don't lock themselves in closets and cry about it, or, if they do, they do so in private.
The hug, then, takes him almost completely by surprise, and he startles a little before letting himself sink into it, letting Ned hold him tightly, burying his face in Ned's shoulder. He's not crying, he's not going to let himself, but those tears are still there, lurking somewhere, and he knows they could burst out at any minute. If he does cry, he thinks, he'll do it once Ned is gone. Because Ned's going to leave eventually, isn't he? Most people do.
"I shouldn't have said any of that," he says, because this is usually the kind of thing he ends up having to apologize for. True, Ned's response is far different than other responses have been -- those responses have been mostly dismissive, with a helping of discomfort and irritation -- but that doesn't mean Ned has endless patience. "And I'm saying that to you, and I know you don't have a mother either, and it's selfish of me to bring any of it up, because I'm making you waste your time in a closet because I freaked out during a meeting about ketchup. I mean, out of everything to have a breakdown about. Maybe I'll pitch an ad like that. Ketchup: It's great, except when you get a mentally unstable ad guy working on it, and then it makes you cry! But it sure tastes delicious.."
He laughs, even though he's not amused, because laughing is a lot better of an option than the alternative.
He recognizes the attempt at humor to lighten the mood, to pretend that what they're talking about isn't devastating. Ned's gone that route enough times himself to know the motives behind it, but he can't even crack a smile. His mouth simply won't obey. Because it's not about ketchup. Not really. That was just the catalyst.
"You're the furthest thing from a waste of time that I can imagine," he says, fervently, not loosening his grip on Ginsberg one iota. His voice is hoarse with emotion, but relatively steady, at least. If Ginsberg meant that as an apology, Ned isn't accepting it. "It isn't selfish to talk about it. I want you to know you can tell me things. I just-" Here, against his will, his voice breaks. He tries to cover it up by clearing his throat, but it's a pretty flimsy ruse. "-I'm not sure what to say. Because. I think. I kind of know... how you feel." The words are coming jerkily, in starts and fits, but he presses on, "And I can't imagine anything anyone could say... making it hurt any less."
Ned runs a hand through Ginsberg's hair, pushing it back from his ears and forehead. "I guess... the only thing I do want to say is, it's okay for it to hurt. That doesn't make you weak, or weird, or crazy."
He's still got his face pressed against Ned's shoulder, but at least he's not close to tears anymore. That's a step in the right direction. That's something he can consider to be a positive thing about this whole incident, right? Ned's here, and talking to him, and it's actually working. There's no way he's pulling away from Ned's embrace yet, not until he feels even better still. It's clingy, and he knows it, but he doesn't much care.
What Ned says, though, has him frowning, because although it can be a good thing, sometimes, to know that someone else out there feels the same way as you do, understands and can comprehend it, he doesn't want Ned to feel that way. He's already seen, of course, that Ned has a great deal of hurt and pain surrounding his childhood, but the fact that Ned recognizes how much this hurts, from a personal level, makes him feel very, very sad.
"You're the last person I'd ever want to feel that way," he says, voice very determined, and a little too loud, although he'd meant it to come out sounding a bit softer, a bit more sensitive. "I mean, I don't think anyone should have to feel that way, but you, especially, you should be happy. And me, y'know, I go from overjoyed to miserable to gleeful to despairing and back again in the space of about an hour, which you've probably noticed, so I'm not sure happy is my goal so much as just... normal. Normal would be a good start. I appreciate you trying to tell me I'm not a waste of time, because that's sweet of you, because you're a sweet guy, but if you feel that way too, if you know how I feel, how do you deal with it? I mean, how do you walk around every day, looking at people and talking to people and pretending that everything's... normal? I keep feeling like one of these days someone is going to find out everything about me and it'll be like they're gleefully tearing open the package on a present to reveal what's inside of me, except the present is a huge disappointment and terrifying. And people do find things out. They just do. Or I tell them. Like I told you."
He's never been good at seeming normal. Not even as a kid. Even less so now.
Ned considers that question, resting his cheek against the top of Ginsberg's head, trying to think how he'll answer. Eventually, he settles on the truth, "I have no idea. I wish I could tell you how I do it, but I don't know. Because I have to. Because I've had a lot of practice." But that doesn't really solve anything. Presumably, Ginsberg would like to be able to appear normal just as badly, and has had just as long to try. Then again, that fear of discovery is something he lives with, too. Though, he thinks, his fear of discovery is a shade different than Ginsberg's. Similar as their emotional troubles may be, Ned's never questioned his assumption that Ginsberg is, after all, a normal human being, without any inexplicable powers to hide.
He keeps holding Ginsberg, muses, "I've had a lot more practice seeming normal and happy than being either of them, if I'm honest. I always knew... being normal was never really an option, for me. And I was always pretty skeptical about being happy, too. So I guess I learned to fake it pretty well."
"Me too. More practice pretending than actually being those things, I mean. My whole life, I've known I wasn't normal. Maybe I'm a different kind of abnormal than you are. See, you seem pretty normal to me. But I know that that's just appearances, and that in reality, you're probably just as abnormal as I am, but in different ways. That's why I like you. I mean, that's not the only reason I like you. There're a lot of reasons to like you."
As evidenced by his continued clinging, apparently. Ned doesn't seem to mind the continued closeness, especially not with the way Ned's resting his cheek on top of his head like that. He doesn't know exactly what Ned has to hide, other than the things that Ned had already divulged to him on Halloween, but whatever they are, he supposes they're probably different than his own. No two people are exactly the same, after all, even when it comes to deep, dark secrets.
"I fake it pretty well, too. I think. Most people think I'm pretty cheerful, or if not cheerful, just kind of weird and offbeat. And I am all of those things, I guess, but obviously I'm a whole lot of other things, too. I don't really talk about this with anyone else. I talked about it with Peggy a little, but I'm not sure if she understood it all. It's hard to try to explain your childhood in a way that won't make people pity you. Pity's such a waste of time. I tried to explain to her how I didn't feel real, how I didn't feel like I fit, but I think all she got out of it was quintessential orphaned kid sob story."
Privately, Ned is certain that his abnormality is of a different sort than Ginsberg's, that if Ginsberg ever found out what he can actually do, he would do something far more drastic than hide in a closet. He has much more than what Ned's come to think of as the average allowance for peculiarity, for vulnerability, for strangeness. But all that he's shared with Ginsberg thus far has been within the bounds of physics and the accepted scientific way of looking at the world. What would he do if he knew the rest?
Ginsberg is right about one thing though - that the demarcation between feigning cheer and actually being cheerful isn't always so easy to locate. Habitual acts can become realities, or something very similar. There have been days, weeks, when Ned has almost convinced himself that he is the person he pretends to be, inside and out. But something always came along to remind him, before too long, of the fragility of that act.
"You already know more about my past than anyone else in the world," Ned says, as a kind of proof that he understands why Ginsberg doesn't talk about this kind of thing so often. There is, however, one detail that is eluding his comprehension. Which is why he asks in a gentle, quiet voice, "Most of what you're saying is so like my own thoughts that I could swear you were some kind of mind-reader. But... I'm not sure I know what you mean when you say you don't feel real."
This is always such a difficult thing to explain, even to himself, and the truth is, he has no idea how to explain it to Ned without sounding utterly insane. "I guess sometimes I just start thinking about how strange the very nature of existing is. We're here, but it all seems so random. There were probably a million things that could've happened to make us not be here at all, not exist at all. And sometimes I start to wonder whether everything that I experience isn't just some kind of... I wonder whether it's all actually just in my head, if I'm just fantasizing about everything I think I'm seeing and feeling and doing. And if that's possible, and I know it is, because I know there're people who live with those kinds of delusions, then isn't it possible that I'm also just a delusion in someone else's head? Maybe the reason I feel so strange and out of place all the time is that I'm just not supposed to be here, that I'm just a figment of someone else's mind."
It doesn't make sense, when he explains it aloud, and he doesn't expect Ned to get it, but he's talking too fast now to slow himself down or to consider just how bizarre and downright strange he sounds, saying all of this. Ned might understand what some of this is like, but he probably doesn't question his own existence. Ginsberg, on the other hand, has been having existential dilemmas since before he really knew what they were.
"I mean, I don't really fit anywhere. I was born in Germany, but I'm not German. I was in Sweden for awhile, but I'm not Swedish. I came to America, but I'm not really American, not the way people think of it, even if my passport says I'm an American citizen. Where am I categorized? My father isn't my real father. I might not have had a mother at all, for all I know she could be a fictionalization, too, and I could have come from outer space. I have no idea what my real birthday is, I just know the one they invented for me. I have no idea what I was supposed to be named, I just know what they decided to call me. Everything I know about myself is fake. Doesn't that mean I'm not real, too?"
Much of this is, indeed, rather over Ned's head. He's never questioned the fact that he does exist, that the universe exists, that the people he interacts with are real and not delusions. He can't imagine how frightening it must be, to doubt on such a fundamental level. The closest equivalent he can conjure up from his own experiences would be his early religious crisis, when he decided there was no God, no heaven and hell, no benevolent omnipotent consciousness looking down on him. That had been a paradigm shift that changed the way he looked at everything. But Ginsberg, from the sound of it, is stuck in that transitional phase, not able to take anything for granted.
He doesn't understand, but he does listen, and gradually Ginsberg's reasoning becomes more accessible to him. Questions of identity, he has dealt with. Not in the realm of nationality, as it seems to be in Ginsberg's case. But he feels on firmer ground responding to that
"I don't think so." He's careful to phrase it as an opinion - not making fun of Ginsberg for having doubts as to his own existence, but firm in his own conviction that Ginsberg is, in fact, real. He wonders if anyone had ever bothered to give him even that, or if they had scoffed and spouted some variation on of course you're real. "The only way that would make you not real is if you believe someone's past is the key to who they are, and I don't think that. Not the only one, anyway. Maybe... maybe another way to look at it is: even if you don't know what you are, and can never know for certain, that means you get to decide who you want to be."
He knows it sounds cheesy, but it's what he's always done. He's focused that old anxiety over what kind of monster he must be into efforts to redefine himself, to build scaffolds and structures around that emptiness, around that unanswered question.
"Sure, I guess it could mean that. And I guess I decided to be what I am right now. Which isn't necessarily a bad decision, but if I'd've been able to pick anything, I probably would've chosen being someone with a little more money. You'd think advertising would pay well, but it doesn't."
He knows that's not necessarily relevant to the conversation at hand, but he never can resist going off on a tangent, if the opportunity presents itself. He finally dislodges his face from Ned's shoulder, although he doesn't pull away from him entirely. No way is he letting go of him before he has to.
He appreciates Ned's words, the obvious care that he takes to make sure that he doesn't denigrate his feelings, ridiculous as they may be. Other people haven't necessarily given him that kind of thought. They've just dismissed him, or worse, gotten worried about him. That's what his father had done, when he'd started talking like this. Decided he needed help, and found him a 'good' psychoanalyst. It hadn't worked.
"But that thing you say about the past not being the key to who you are... I don't think most people see it the way you do. Why else would people be so focused on making ads about childhood memories? These things are supposed to shape us in some way, and we're supposed to become adults based on what we experienced as kids, right? But I mean it, I can't remember anything until I was five or so, and who knows what happened before then? I mean, I've been told, but that's different. So if it shaped me, I don't know how. And that's scary, not knowing how things you can't even remember might have changed you for the worse."
The fact that Ginsberg feels up to a tangent like that, up to a crack about how little he makes at his job, tells Ned that he's doing somewhat better. He feels like his presence here is helping, if only a tiny amount. His eventual plan is to get Ginsberg feeling stable enough to leave the closet, then to whisk him out of the building and back to his place for the night, to get him ready for that inevitable meeting the next day. But he doesn't want to rush it and ruin this small improvement.
Ned thinks that his memory from before he was five is fairly spotty, too, that some of that is natural, but he gets the feeling that what Ginsberg is talking about is more complete than that. He remembers what Ginsberg said about being in the meeting and drawing that complete blank, tries to imagine how alarming that must be.
"If I couldn't remember years of my life, I'd be pretty freaked out, too," he admits. He doesn't have any words of advice, or wisdom, to make that gap any less daunting. Nothing he hasn't said already, anyway. "I don't think people make ads about childhood memories because they're more important for shaping who you turn out to be, though. I think... I mean, I'm not gonna pretend I know anything about advertising, but I would think it's because nostalgia is missing something you can never have again, so it would make sense to take that desire and try to redirect it towards something that you can have. Right? It's an easy way to make people want things. It's not like the first five years of your life are more important to making you who you are than the last five have been."
"That's exactly what it all is," he says, nodding, glad that Ned seems to get it. "It's a cheap way of inducing nostalgia, and then directing peoples' attention towards some product that can give them a simulacrum of the experience they think they had as kids, that they're desperate to get back. Mostly because adults are so unhappy that they're willing to do just about anything to regain the experiences they feel like they had as kids, but the truth is that even if they did have a sense of wonder and innocence when they were children -- which most people didn't have as much as they think they do -- they'll never get it back. And I guess that's why I prefer the darker ads. No pretending there, or at least, not in the same way. We're still trying to sell shit people don't need."
It does seem like he's feeling better. His talking is still quick, but his breathing has slowed down to a more reasonable rate -- part of that's down to being this close to Ned, to breathing in his smell and leaning against his shoulder and absorbing his calm -- but part of that's being able to talk about this without fear of judgement. He hasn't had that opportunity in far too long.
"So we should probably get out of this closet soon, right? I mean, Peggy and Bob are probably wondering what we're doing in here, and if I don't come out soon, they'll probably think I murdered you on my obviously psychotic, panicked, poetry-spouting rampage. You missed that. The poetry, I mean. I thought it would be a good way to calm down, but I guess it just sounded nuts."
"You're not going to try going back to work, are you?" Ned asks, with a trace of worry creeping into his voice. He wouldn't put it past Ginsberg to try: his job is so stressful, so competitive. But there's no question in the piemaker's mind that the best thing for Ginsberg would be to just get away from this place for a little while.
"Can you tell them you'll be ready for the meeting tomorrow and come back with me?" He doesn't want to just leave, can't bear the thought of heading out on his own with Ginsberg staying here, to deal with the rest of them, giving him sidelong glances, making remarks. Ned knows he can't keep him away from that forever, can't hold onto him forever, but he's not ready to be parted from him just yet. For his own sake, as well as Ginsberg's.
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He sets aside the question of when Ginsberg will come out, of what his coworkers are thinking, sets aside the revelation that it's not the first time he's done this. The script that Ginsberg seems to anticipate he'll follow is not the one he has in mind.
"It's not the first time I've locked myself in a closet, either." It is, he thinks, the first time he's done so for this particular reason, though. He is seized with a fleeting but intense feeling of inadequacy and unpreparedness. What if he does the wrong thing and makes matters worse? What if he only causes Ginsberg more pain?
But he has practice at shoving aside such thoughts, and does so with alacrity. Ginsberg's standing a fair distance away from him (or at least, as much as the cramped closet will allow). Ned, cautiously, takes a step closer. He's still getting his bearings, trying to suss out what might upset Ginsberg further.
Because the more he can see, the more Ned can tell that he's not doing alright at all. He's never seen Ginsberg like this, never heard him like this. It actually, physically hurts, but for once Ned is successful at masking what he feels on his face. He's got to keep a lid on it, for fear of making Ginsberg even more of a mess.
"Did something happen?"
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Except, from the way he stares at the ceiling and then suddenly slumps down into a cross legged, slouchy position on the floor, something obviously had gone wrong. He's talking fast, aware of how ridiculous he sounds, wanting to get all of this out before Ned has the regelation that he's crazy and leaves the closet, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
"But then we started talking about what the ad should be, and people started talking about their first memories, and they all have something, even if the memories aren't that detailed. Something from when they're two or three, something they can spin out into a good story about fucking ketchup. And then they wanted me to talk about mine, because I'm supposed to be the genius, or whatever, but I couldn't think of anything. Nothing at all. Big blank spot."
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He has to reorient his mind to the kind of situation he's dealing with, rewrite his half-formulated strategy on the ground. He wouldn't classify what Ginsberg's talking about as nothing happening - clearly it was something, and a big something - but what he'd been expecting had been a bit more tangible. An unusually-hurtful insult from a boss, a botched meeting with a client, a fight with his father, that kind of thing. This is both bigger and more difficult to know how to handle.
"That sounds pretty terrifying."
Ned hates towering when Ginsberg is sitting on the floor like that, looking so fragile and so far away. He sits down, too, setting the pie box between them and wrapping his arms around his knees, not near enough to Ginsberg to be threatening.
"They might have been making theirs up?" But Ned knows that suggestion will solve little to nothing, mentally pinches himself for being inept at this. This isn't about his coworkers and their ability to paste themselves into that picture of happiness, family values, and ketchup. It seems to be about the fact that Ginsberg can't. He recovers as best as he can, "Did they bug you about it?"
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At least, that's the route his downward spirals tend to take. He doesn't scoot closer to Ned when he joins him on the floor, but he also doesn't scoot away, and in this mood, that's as much of a tacit sign that someone's welcome as saying it out loud.
"I know it sounds crazy to you. It sounds crazy to me, too. Usually I'm a different person when I'm working on an ad. A confident guy. You probably wouldn't recognize me. By the time I was done telling my bullshit story, though, I could hardly breathe. I had to come in here."
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That downward spiral sounds eerily, even unsettlingly familiar to Ned. He wouldn't have thought, for any problems he might have, that Ginsberg would have felt that kind of radical, fundamental self-doubt. He's never met anyone who has before, or who has admitted to it. Oh, there were plenty of folks with their identity crises, not wanting to be who their parents wanted them to be, feeling lost in an indifferent world that had no place for their unique selves. But they took for granted certain assumptions about themselves that Ned couldn't. He wonders what it is about Ginsberg that makes him different from the rest. But he's not here to solve the other man, like some kind of puzzle. He's here to help him out of the dark, to re-ravel him.
"It sounds a lot less crazy than you'd think." He pauses, choosing his words with care, "I can see why you'd want to come here, and why you wouldn't want to leave. There are no distractions in here, and no one watching you, which is good when you feel like you don't even know which way is up or down, right?"
Ned might have shared a similar doubt, but that doesn't mean he has a solution at hand, some method of dealing with it to recommend. He wishes he did. Truth is, when he started to think too much about his life or his identity or the impossibility of it all, he made pies until he ran out of ingredients. That's not gonna work, for Ginsberg. But neither is just sitting here in the dark, letting that momentum carry him further down the spiral.
"Is it any help if I tell you I'm pretty sure you exist?" He holds out his hand in offer, to reinforce that solidity, to give Ginsberg something to hold onto. "Even if everything else is a bit undecided, that's somewhere to start, isn't it?"
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That said, and apparently decided, he takes Ned's hand firmly, squeezing it a little, as though all the answers he's looking for can be found just from holding onto Ned's hand tightly and trying to concentrate on the fact that Ned's here to help him, that Ned cared enough to come here to try to talk him through this. It's only partially effective; his breathing is still quick, and even in the dimly lit closet, it's probably obvious to Ned that his face is white with stress.
"I feel sick," he mutters, and that's really no surprise, if he's been locked in a dark closet for five hours, worrying and obsessing and spending all of his time inside his own mind. "I keep thinking... I just keep thinking about what I said, that I don't know who anyone is, that I don't know who I am, and then I think about how much you wouldn't like me if you knew who I am, either. Do you ever think about that? How you're the pie guy and I'm the ad guy and we have these roles we fulfill and maybe we're a little weird but that stops people from asking the really serious questions, because you can just chalk it all up to weirdness, but then if you dig deep, at least for me, there're all kinds of messy things in there and I don't think the pie guy would really like the ad guy if he knew him all that well. So maybe you shouldn't be here, either, because I really want you to like me."
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The doubts and insecurities that Ginsberg explains could have been taken from his own brain on certain sleepless nights. It would be remarkable, maybe even funny, if everything didn't feel so deathly serious.
"I do like you. A lot. Probably too much, actually. When Peggy called I ran the whole way to the subway station, and then the whole way here. It's true that I don't know everything about you yet, but I like every single thing I have learned so far. I like that you love your job despite everything. I like that peach pie is your favorite, and I like that you're terrible at dates. I like that you speak your mind even if it means getting hit. I like that you're so much sweeter than you seem to realize and that you've never made me feel like a freak."
Ned doesn't worry, in this moment, about laying it on too thick. If their roles were reversed, he knows he'd be only too happy (secretly, desperately) to hear these sorts of things. He wraps a second hand around Ginsberg's, for emphasis, holding it tightly. "I like that you worry about the sorts of things I worry about. I'm not afraid to learn the not-so-nice things I don't know yet. I'd be a lot more afraid if I found out it was all neat and tidy memories of family values and ketchup, because how could a guy like that possibly understand a guy like me?"
He scoots a little closer, cautiously, keeping watch for any sign that he's crossed some imaginary line and should move back once more. "I can't make promises for anyone else, but I'm pretty sure I can handle the mess. Takes one to know one, and all of that. So I think you're wrong. I think the pie guy will still like the ad guy, even if he finds out bad things have happened to him, or that he's done things he regrets."
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It's obvious from the way he's staring at Ned, eyes wide, that nobody's ever quite said things like that to him during a time he feels like this. Sure, people have told him the usual stuff: calm down, you're okay, even little pep talks that had momentarily buoyed his spirits, about how he wasn't a terrible person, about how everything would work out. Those never solved any problems, but sometimes they got him to think about something other than the darkness in his own mind. But what Ned's saying is bigger than that; it's about him, and it's specific, and it's all about how Ned likes him. Likes what he knows, at least. Wants to know more. Doesn't seem afraid of the things he might learn, if it all comes spilling out, which seems more and more likely.
"Do you ever..." he begins, wondering why it's always so much easier to begin his sentences as a question to Ned, or to someone else, as a desperate way to make sure that he's not the only one that thinks about these kinds of things. Unfortunately, the response to his do you ever questions is all too often 'no,' with the accompanying blank stare that lets him know just how crazy the recipient of the question thinks he is. Somehow, though, he doesn't think Ned will respond that way. Somehow, he thinks, even if Ned hasn't experienced the things he's asking, he'll phrase it in a way that doesn't alienate Ginsberg further.
"Do you ever think that... I mean, you said I was sweet, but I don't think I'm sweet at all. I think I can be sweet on the outside, but I don't think that's who I am on the inside. Are you ever afraid of who you are on the inside? Sometimes I can't stop thinking about that, about how there're these... it's like there're voices inside my head, all the time, telling me what terrible things I'm capable of, and they're not things I want to do, but I'm scared of doing them. You like that I speak my mind even if it means getting hit, but I don't hit back because what if I really, really hurt someone? What if I killed someone? And I know I could. I know this all sounds crazy, like I'm some kind of lunatic, and you probably wanted to run out of here the minute I said there were voices in my head, but sometimes I think we all have voices like that, the ones that tell us how awful we are. And sure, you'd like me if you found out bad things had happened to me, but would you like me if you knew that I was probably just a terrible, harmful person waiting to explode?"
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"I didn't tell you I went back to the museum, after our date. The day after. No one recognized me or anything. That... that display case I pushed that guy into? There was a crack in the glass. That's how hard I slammed him into it." He'd intended on never telling Ginsberg that, hadn't wanted to. But now he thinks, it might provide a certain solidarity. "I was so angry at him for hitting you - for hitting me, too - that I could have really hurt him. I... I might have, if things had gone differently."
He scoots closer still, so that their knees are touching, and he can look Ginsberg in the eyes as he says, "I don't think you're crazy, and I'm not going anywhere." Carefully, he reaches a hand across the distance and cups Ginsberg's cheek. Sure, Ned might not necessarily phrase it as voices in his head telling him he's awful, but for all he knows Ginsberg is talking about the exact same thing he's felt, and just describing it in different terms.
"Being afraid of what I'm capable of is kind of my default state of being. I wake up every day terrified that someone will get hurt and it'll be my fault, so I know that it's an awful thing to worry about. But that doesn't make you a lunatic, and it doesn't make you a terrible person. If you ask me, it makes you a good person. Good people aren't good because they can't do any harm, or because they don't ever want to. They're good because they decide to be good, every single day. If you ask me, it's what you do that decides who you are, so acting sweet on the outside is exactly the same as being sweet."
Ned runs his thumb along Ginsberg's cheekbone, heart breaking at the thought of him tangled up in all that worry and fear when he's been kinder to Ned than anyone he's known for a long, long time. "And everyone slips up now and then, even good people, and that's okay. You just have to live with it as best as you can, and start over trying to be good the next day."
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"I can try to be good all I want," he finally says, reassured by Ned's continued physical contact, by the fact that it's dark and quiet in the closet. He knows that his coworkers are likely wondering what they're doing in here, what they're talking about, but he's glad they're leaving them alone to talk. Peggy's doing, most likely. If it were up to Bob, he doesn't doubt the closet door would have been broken down by now. "But no matter how hard I try to be good, to be kind, I'm still part of something awful. I can't sleep at night sometimes because I start thinking about all the terrible things I do, even though I don't do them directly."
He knows that requires more explanation, but thinking about it makes his head hurt, so he has to take a pause and take a big breath, trying to steady himself. The things Ned's saying make sense, are reasonable, are even soothing, but it's hard to accept all of those things when his mind is racing a mile a minute. "I think about you slamming that guy into the display case and there's something about it that makes me happy. And that shouldn't ever make me happy. I should be glad you defended me, but feel bad for the guy, or worried that he got hurt. You were obviously worried that you'd hurt him, when it happened."
Turning his face away from Ned now, he seems to be addressing the shelves full of paper and pencils and cleaning supplies. "I talk about hating the war. Hating the companies that use their money or their products to support the war. But then we do ads for them, and I take the paycheck even though I know it's dirty money, and I tell myself 'it's just a job, I'm not a bad person, I'm not hurting anyone,' but that's what everyone says, that's what anyone who allows bad things to happen says. That's how the Nazis tried to defend themselves, too. 'Just a job.' So how does that make me any better, when I know I help companies hurt people? You don't do that. You make pie. Pie doesn't hurt people."
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"Not necessarily," Ned knows it's a stretch, but he isn't sure how else to comfort Ginsberg, how else to make him feel better, "The companies I buy fruit from probably cheat and exploit their workers, only I haven't had the courage to look them up and check, because even if they do, I have to buy fruit from someone. Just like you have to make ads for someone. That doesn't make you a- a Nazi. You have to see that. You're not writing propaganda for the war, and you're not working for the government, and you're not hurting people directly, so there is a difference. There's a big one."
There's something so daunting about all this, and Ned has a moment of self-doubt. Is this really the right route to take, or will it sound like he's just invalidating Ginsberg's feelings? But he doesn't know what else to do.
"The war's too big for you, Ginsberg. You're not going to be able to stop it single-handed by quitting your job, or keep it going by writing a great ad for a horrible company. You're not that important. That doesn't mean you're just allowing bad things to happen."
He hesitates, weighing the options before him. Will baring his own burdens really help to Ginsberg to bear his? Or will he merely worsen the other man's conviction that everyone is rotten on the inside, in one way or another? In the end, Ned decides to risk it.
"And even if pie doesn't hurt people... I have. So I know what I'm talking about."
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He could be saying I know to anything, but what he's really agreeing to is that he knows that he's not that important, that nothing he does really has an impact in the big scheme of things. It's logical, and it makes sense to him, and it's the kind of thing he'd tell someone else and really mean it, but it's amazing how logical things can be so difficult to comprehend when applied to oneself. All the rules he has for other people, all the ideas he has about them, those all go out the door when they're applying to him.
"You've hurt people?"
He doesn't necessarily know what Ned means by that, and that's why he turns his head back to look at him curiously. Maybe Ned means physically, like the guy he'd slammed into the display case. Maybe he means emotionally, because it's pretty damn hard to go through life without hurting at least one or two people emotionally, no matter how hard you try. Maybe he means something else entirely. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want. Maybe it's enough just to know that I'm not the only one. Not the only terrible person. Not that you're terrible, I don't mean that at all, but not the only one who worries about this kind of thing."
And there he goes again, fumbling his way through sentences he's not sure how to articulate, making it all sound worse than it really is. He knows that he has a flair for the dramatic, that he's likely panicking about something that nobody else would even give a second's thought to, but he doesn't think he can help it. For better or for worse, this is how his brain works. It's exhausting.
He's startled to find that tears have sprung to his eyes, and he swipes at his eyes angrily with the sleeve of his sweater. The last thing he needs is to cry in front of Ned. This is already bad enough, and although he's generally more comfortable being emotional than most people, crying is another level of unpleasantness. Surely, even if Ned hasn't judged him so far, he'd judge him for that.
"I just hate knowing..." He hesitates, and then spills it all out in a long stream of words that practically run together. "I hate knowing that if I hadn't been born, my mother, whoever the hell she was, would probably still be alive. I mean, I don't know that for sure, because how could I, but she'd've had a better chance. I hate knowing that my existence hurt someone. Just existing. Not even doing anything. Not even consciously. Just the act of being here."
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His chest aches when he sees Ginsberg wiping away tears. Ned's never been much good at seeing other people in pain or distress, even if they were strangers. To see Ginsberg fighting back tears like that is so much worse than he would have imagined, and that's before he says what he does about his mother.
They've finally coming to it, to the thing at the roof of all these different strands: Ginsberg's response in the meeting, his feeling of dread and unreality, his fear that he's a bad person, his horror of hurting others. But it turns out that at this most crucial of moments, words absolutely fail Ned. He's accustomed enough to speaking with people about their mothers, even their dead mothers, and doing so with the emotional distance necessary to keep himself safe. He wasn't expecting this, however, and it cuts into him deep, from out of nowhere. Ginsberg blames himself for his mother's death. Well. That's something Ned can relate to, too.
Only he can't seem to find his voice to say that. And besides, what would he even say? What words could possibly be enough? He can't tell Ginsberg it isn't his fault, though he doesn't think it is, because that strikes Ned as not his right (besides which, he wouldn't trust his voice). So he does something that's out of character for him and gathers Ginsberg into an embrace, sudden and fierce, holds him as if he could banish everything bad in just that one act. Ned knows that he's shaking, now, but he doesn't care Ginsberg if notices. He'll say something, something reassuring, something wise and logical, when he can.
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The hug, then, takes him almost completely by surprise, and he startles a little before letting himself sink into it, letting Ned hold him tightly, burying his face in Ned's shoulder. He's not crying, he's not going to let himself, but those tears are still there, lurking somewhere, and he knows they could burst out at any minute. If he does cry, he thinks, he'll do it once Ned is gone. Because Ned's going to leave eventually, isn't he? Most people do.
"I shouldn't have said any of that," he says, because this is usually the kind of thing he ends up having to apologize for. True, Ned's response is far different than other responses have been -- those responses have been mostly dismissive, with a helping of discomfort and irritation -- but that doesn't mean Ned has endless patience. "And I'm saying that to you, and I know you don't have a mother either, and it's selfish of me to bring any of it up, because I'm making you waste your time in a closet because I freaked out during a meeting about ketchup. I mean, out of everything to have a breakdown about. Maybe I'll pitch an ad like that. Ketchup: It's great, except when you get a mentally unstable ad guy working on it, and then it makes you cry! But it sure tastes delicious.."
He laughs, even though he's not amused, because laughing is a lot better of an option than the alternative.
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"You're the furthest thing from a waste of time that I can imagine," he says, fervently, not loosening his grip on Ginsberg one iota. His voice is hoarse with emotion, but relatively steady, at least. If Ginsberg meant that as an apology, Ned isn't accepting it. "It isn't selfish to talk about it. I want you to know you can tell me things. I just-" Here, against his will, his voice breaks. He tries to cover it up by clearing his throat, but it's a pretty flimsy ruse. "-I'm not sure what to say. Because. I think. I kind of know... how you feel." The words are coming jerkily, in starts and fits, but he presses on, "And I can't imagine anything anyone could say... making it hurt any less."
Ned runs a hand through Ginsberg's hair, pushing it back from his ears and forehead. "I guess... the only thing I do want to say is, it's okay for it to hurt. That doesn't make you weak, or weird, or crazy."
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What Ned says, though, has him frowning, because although it can be a good thing, sometimes, to know that someone else out there feels the same way as you do, understands and can comprehend it, he doesn't want Ned to feel that way. He's already seen, of course, that Ned has a great deal of hurt and pain surrounding his childhood, but the fact that Ned recognizes how much this hurts, from a personal level, makes him feel very, very sad.
"You're the last person I'd ever want to feel that way," he says, voice very determined, and a little too loud, although he'd meant it to come out sounding a bit softer, a bit more sensitive. "I mean, I don't think anyone should have to feel that way, but you, especially, you should be happy. And me, y'know, I go from overjoyed to miserable to gleeful to despairing and back again in the space of about an hour, which you've probably noticed, so I'm not sure happy is my goal so much as just... normal. Normal would be a good start. I appreciate you trying to tell me I'm not a waste of time, because that's sweet of you, because you're a sweet guy, but if you feel that way too, if you know how I feel, how do you deal with it? I mean, how do you walk around every day, looking at people and talking to people and pretending that everything's... normal? I keep feeling like one of these days someone is going to find out everything about me and it'll be like they're gleefully tearing open the package on a present to reveal what's inside of me, except the present is a huge disappointment and terrifying. And people do find things out. They just do. Or I tell them. Like I told you."
He's never been good at seeming normal. Not even as a kid. Even less so now.
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He keeps holding Ginsberg, muses, "I've had a lot more practice seeming normal and happy than being either of them, if I'm honest. I always knew... being normal was never really an option, for me. And I was always pretty skeptical about being happy, too. So I guess I learned to fake it pretty well."
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As evidenced by his continued clinging, apparently. Ned doesn't seem to mind the continued closeness, especially not with the way Ned's resting his cheek on top of his head like that. He doesn't know exactly what Ned has to hide, other than the things that Ned had already divulged to him on Halloween, but whatever they are, he supposes they're probably different than his own. No two people are exactly the same, after all, even when it comes to deep, dark secrets.
"I fake it pretty well, too. I think. Most people think I'm pretty cheerful, or if not cheerful, just kind of weird and offbeat. And I am all of those things, I guess, but obviously I'm a whole lot of other things, too. I don't really talk about this with anyone else. I talked about it with Peggy a little, but I'm not sure if she understood it all. It's hard to try to explain your childhood in a way that won't make people pity you. Pity's such a waste of time. I tried to explain to her how I didn't feel real, how I didn't feel like I fit, but I think all she got out of it was quintessential orphaned kid sob story."
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Ginsberg is right about one thing though - that the demarcation between feigning cheer and actually being cheerful isn't always so easy to locate. Habitual acts can become realities, or something very similar. There have been days, weeks, when Ned has almost convinced himself that he is the person he pretends to be, inside and out. But something always came along to remind him, before too long, of the fragility of that act.
"You already know more about my past than anyone else in the world," Ned says, as a kind of proof that he understands why Ginsberg doesn't talk about this kind of thing so often. There is, however, one detail that is eluding his comprehension. Which is why he asks in a gentle, quiet voice, "Most of what you're saying is so like my own thoughts that I could swear you were some kind of mind-reader. But... I'm not sure I know what you mean when you say you don't feel real."
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This is always such a difficult thing to explain, even to himself, and the truth is, he has no idea how to explain it to Ned without sounding utterly insane. "I guess sometimes I just start thinking about how strange the very nature of existing is. We're here, but it all seems so random. There were probably a million things that could've happened to make us not be here at all, not exist at all. And sometimes I start to wonder whether everything that I experience isn't just some kind of... I wonder whether it's all actually just in my head, if I'm just fantasizing about everything I think I'm seeing and feeling and doing. And if that's possible, and I know it is, because I know there're people who live with those kinds of delusions, then isn't it possible that I'm also just a delusion in someone else's head? Maybe the reason I feel so strange and out of place all the time is that I'm just not supposed to be here, that I'm just a figment of someone else's mind."
It doesn't make sense, when he explains it aloud, and he doesn't expect Ned to get it, but he's talking too fast now to slow himself down or to consider just how bizarre and downright strange he sounds, saying all of this. Ned might understand what some of this is like, but he probably doesn't question his own existence. Ginsberg, on the other hand, has been having existential dilemmas since before he really knew what they were.
"I mean, I don't really fit anywhere. I was born in Germany, but I'm not German. I was in Sweden for awhile, but I'm not Swedish. I came to America, but I'm not really American, not the way people think of it, even if my passport says I'm an American citizen. Where am I categorized? My father isn't my real father. I might not have had a mother at all, for all I know she could be a fictionalization, too, and I could have come from outer space. I have no idea what my real birthday is, I just know the one they invented for me. I have no idea what I was supposed to be named, I just know what they decided to call me. Everything I know about myself is fake. Doesn't that mean I'm not real, too?"
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He doesn't understand, but he does listen, and gradually Ginsberg's reasoning becomes more accessible to him. Questions of identity, he has dealt with. Not in the realm of nationality, as it seems to be in Ginsberg's case. But he feels on firmer ground responding to that
"I don't think so." He's careful to phrase it as an opinion - not making fun of Ginsberg for having doubts as to his own existence, but firm in his own conviction that Ginsberg is, in fact, real. He wonders if anyone had ever bothered to give him even that, or if they had scoffed and spouted some variation on of course you're real. "The only way that would make you not real is if you believe someone's past is the key to who they are, and I don't think that. Not the only one, anyway. Maybe... maybe another way to look at it is: even if you don't know what you are, and can never know for certain, that means you get to decide who you want to be."
He knows it sounds cheesy, but it's what he's always done. He's focused that old anxiety over what kind of monster he must be into efforts to redefine himself, to build scaffolds and structures around that emptiness, around that unanswered question.
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He knows that's not necessarily relevant to the conversation at hand, but he never can resist going off on a tangent, if the opportunity presents itself. He finally dislodges his face from Ned's shoulder, although he doesn't pull away from him entirely. No way is he letting go of him before he has to.
He appreciates Ned's words, the obvious care that he takes to make sure that he doesn't denigrate his feelings, ridiculous as they may be. Other people haven't necessarily given him that kind of thought. They've just dismissed him, or worse, gotten worried about him. That's what his father had done, when he'd started talking like this. Decided he needed help, and found him a 'good' psychoanalyst. It hadn't worked.
"But that thing you say about the past not being the key to who you are... I don't think most people see it the way you do. Why else would people be so focused on making ads about childhood memories? These things are supposed to shape us in some way, and we're supposed to become adults based on what we experienced as kids, right? But I mean it, I can't remember anything until I was five or so, and who knows what happened before then? I mean, I've been told, but that's different. So if it shaped me, I don't know how. And that's scary, not knowing how things you can't even remember might have changed you for the worse."
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Ned thinks that his memory from before he was five is fairly spotty, too, that some of that is natural, but he gets the feeling that what Ginsberg is talking about is more complete than that. He remembers what Ginsberg said about being in the meeting and drawing that complete blank, tries to imagine how alarming that must be.
"If I couldn't remember years of my life, I'd be pretty freaked out, too," he admits. He doesn't have any words of advice, or wisdom, to make that gap any less daunting. Nothing he hasn't said already, anyway. "I don't think people make ads about childhood memories because they're more important for shaping who you turn out to be, though. I think... I mean, I'm not gonna pretend I know anything about advertising, but I would think it's because nostalgia is missing something you can never have again, so it would make sense to take that desire and try to redirect it towards something that you can have. Right? It's an easy way to make people want things. It's not like the first five years of your life are more important to making you who you are than the last five have been."
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It does seem like he's feeling better. His talking is still quick, but his breathing has slowed down to a more reasonable rate -- part of that's down to being this close to Ned, to breathing in his smell and leaning against his shoulder and absorbing his calm -- but part of that's being able to talk about this without fear of judgement. He hasn't had that opportunity in far too long.
"So we should probably get out of this closet soon, right? I mean, Peggy and Bob are probably wondering what we're doing in here, and if I don't come out soon, they'll probably think I murdered you on my obviously psychotic, panicked, poetry-spouting rampage. You missed that. The poetry, I mean. I thought it would be a good way to calm down, but I guess it just sounded nuts."
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"Can you tell them you'll be ready for the meeting tomorrow and come back with me?" He doesn't want to just leave, can't bear the thought of heading out on his own with Ginsberg staying here, to deal with the rest of them, giving him sidelong glances, making remarks. Ned knows he can't keep him away from that forever, can't hold onto him forever, but he's not ready to be parted from him just yet. For his own sake, as well as Ginsberg's.
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