That’s a wholly uninspired title, but then again, I’m wholly uninspired. I just figured that it was better to suffer through writing this out finally. I’ve been putting it off for as long as I’ve been alive, and perhaps even something is better than nothing at this point.
I don’t know how to see myself. Because my vision of me is completely splintered, fractured up into chunks - healing, unhealing, healing, dust. It’s all sort of a jumble in there. I guess I just wanted some validation in the end, that I’ve been through things and they affected me in ways that aren’t my fault. Even if it’s my responsibility to nurse the wounds moving forward.
I’m tired of rubbing up against peoples egos. My life’s story is my own, and if all I wanted was to be seen, why shouldn’t I share it? If I’m scared, why isn’t it okay to be reassured by people who love me? Why is everyone so afraid of reaching out and lending each other a hand? Does anyone really love anyone?
I look around and it all seems like such a sickness. Living in a world where these principles don’t matter, where we put ourselves first, foremost, and forever more. It all comes down to individual instead of us. Maybe I just don’t think that way. Maybe I think community and belonging matter. Maybe it’s all the people who had that love, growing up, that I never got to taste. People who were there when they fell. Someone who didn’t chastise you for crying. Support for what it meant to build yourself up. All I could do was find retreat in my head.
You know, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want anyone to suffer. Even my worst daydreams of revenge were moments of me in a spotlight, happy for once and moving on in ways that the others could see. That I was somehow happier without them, and I didn’t need their approval or love. And like a craven vulture, I circled those ideas until they became foundational for how and who I want to be.
Stronger. Better. Braver. A challenger of opinion, of the status quo. Champion of a cause.
But the problem lies in my frustration with myself. I’m good at staying alive. Not thriving. And there’s a big difference when I see the way others have channeled their anguish and pain into something productive. At the moment, I can barely lift myself from bed. I’m in pain. I don’t sleep enough. I can’t escape my head. Everything hurts. I can’t breathe. So I’ll start a new entry, and actually do the thing I’ve been avoiding.
I’ll write my memories.
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