That I can’t switch on and off like the rest of you.
I’m sorry that I seem to ask more than you want to give.
I’m sorry that I’m not important enough to matter.
I’m sorry that I fucked up even though I know what I did was justified.
I’m sorry that you feel the need to trivialize who I am and what I want and how I feel.
I’m sorry that there are bruises beneath my eyes and along the vertebrae of my spine and below my knees where the skin is thin.
I’m sorry that every time I feel something I can’t help but criticize myself for it.
I’m sorry that I want to be loved but I don’t know how to find that.
I’m sorry that every word that seems to come out of my mouth is an apology.
As though I need forgiveness for existing.
my mom had cancer
The next time I will cut my hair is when I have cancer.
(ie, things my friends freak out about that I have difficulty relating to)
Things that I freak out about that other people might have difficulty relating to
- Coughing so much you can’t sleep
- Blowing your nose so much that you get nosebleeds
- Feeling like you swallowed a hacksaw
- Not being able to look someone in the eye and hold a normal conversation
- The disappointment of giving up
But at the end of the day the one that overcomes is
- Laughing so hard that you could get a 6-pack (never going to happen but one can dream…)
There is no disappointment in giving up, just acknowledging that sometimes we can’t do everything in the universe.
You are exactly who and what you are supposed to be. You aren’t messing up, you’re doing what you have to.
It was so, so, wonderful to see you! Get unsick!
I always have.
When I was in the 3rd grade, I had a friend.
I wanted her to like me. She could tell.
This gave her power.
She dangled her friendship and pulled it back, shoved me away and hauled me back, and I couldn’t cope.
I didn’t tell my mom. I felt worthless. I felt lost. I didn’t sleep. Ate less than I already did. Cried, every night, in the dark, as quiet as I could.
I went in to our kitchen and looked at our knife block and wondered if there was anything that could possibly hurt more. I couldn’t see it ending. Couldn’t let it go. Somehow, she meant so much to me.
Is that why I am how I am? Could it all have been avoided? Or would I always have come out like this, sitting on the outside, wanting to love and be loved and be happy and just have someone notice and care and know it will never, ever happen.
I don’t understand why it won’t— I just know that’s not the case.
Some people are meant to be loved.
They burn with it, bright, and then it doesn’t matter if they’re kind or beautiful, thoughtful or sweet, funny or insightful or create as though the world’s on fire and even if they were me they would be loved.
And some of us are meant to fall, again and again, different ways and different dreams and different loves but all, all of them ending in tears.
Ending in that damn kitchen again, 8 years old and scared and lost and wanting to be anything, anything but what you are.
No matter how much you try to change.
First of all, get a theme with an ask so this is easier.
Secondly, follow omgthatdress, doctorwho, and wearsherlock IMMEDIATELY.
TOM BAKER CAME ONSCREEN AND MY DAD ALMOST FELL OUTBOF HIS CHAIR AND HE WAS SCREAMING “THATS MY DOCTOR, THATS HIM.” AND IT WAS SO BEAUTIFUL
OH MY GOD THAT WAS PERFECT
That’s me then— cute. Adorable. A novelty for your perusal. An item of curiosity— not a person, not a woman, not a soul. Something to be smiled at indulgently when it throws a tantrum. Too small too sharp too scared too strong too much and not nearly enough all at once. Dismissed, ignored, brushed off, put on the shelf— there’s more fun and less work to be found elsewhere.
Is it any wonder that I doubt? That I don’t consider myself to be right, good enough, beautiful, wanted, worth it? I don’t even understand what that is, what that means, what it comes from but I know I don’t have it so I stumble around trying to find it. Should I be thinner? Should I be sadder? Smarter? Should I just shut up give up know that I won’t be loved, prepare myself for a life with the volume turned all the way down, gardening and dancing alone to Creole Jazz in my living room, farmer’s markets on the weekend and a twin bed because what’s the point of anything larger? Good at what I do but one step removed, shuttered, a good life, nothing wrong with it, but not a real life living either.
That’s my future.
I smile, say “yeah, I guess.”