(no subject)
I just. I don't know, right, and that's okay, right?
I live in a stream of consciousness literary world where depth and perception are frowned upon and the hit-me-now mentality gets our engines running in a Chuck Palahniuk kind of fashion. I ride in cars with amazing people who have a passion for red wine, Sunday night dinners, hidden fight clubs, bicycles, and beautiful art. I am so blessed. I read poetry in the skin of the people I love. I find my nerves clicking and buzzing and I am afraid of every interaction I have that might lead into the unknown or might lead to something I can't control. I work hard to understand lacking control and to stop caring what people might think. I am always worried about what happens if I hurt someone, if they see the world or a situation differently than I do and things come crashing down, and I'm torn between this impulse and the impulse to throw everything up in the air and JUST SEE, DAMNIT, because I am always so cautious and this is why I am alone and writing poetry on the insides of my wrists instead of the skin of someone else who wakes up warm and cramped in my bed.
I am so whole it's disgusting and so broken in little first-world ways that it's despicable. Selfish.
I am spending these next two years learning how to BE selfish, to do things for me and to STOP making sure that everyone else is happy before I am happy. This is a self-prescribed and teacher-prescribed medication that I choke on as it makes its way down my throat. I do not know how to tend to my own happiness. I am so worried about everyone else. I don't want anyone to hurt, be unfed, be unhappy, hate me, be angry with me, forget about me, or disregard or discard me.
I am desperately trying to be heard. Just to be heard. I am shouting and waving my hands and have been for years and the only ones who hear are children and perhaps the tiny few who have understood me for years upon years upon years but those who hearts are dear to mine look at me as though I'm speaking grammelot, and it's a painful and frightening realisation. It's especially shocking to realise that I need to love myself, to trust myself, and to honour myself in order for anyone else to do these things to me. No one will find worth in me until I can find worth and beauty in myself.
“The bathroom mirror has not budged, the woman who lives there can tell the truth from the stuff they say and looks me in the eye- says do you prefer the easy way? No? Well ok then, don't cry.” -Ani Difranco
I live in a stream of consciousness literary world where depth and perception are frowned upon and the hit-me-now mentality gets our engines running in a Chuck Palahniuk kind of fashion. I ride in cars with amazing people who have a passion for red wine, Sunday night dinners, hidden fight clubs, bicycles, and beautiful art. I am so blessed. I read poetry in the skin of the people I love. I find my nerves clicking and buzzing and I am afraid of every interaction I have that might lead into the unknown or might lead to something I can't control. I work hard to understand lacking control and to stop caring what people might think. I am always worried about what happens if I hurt someone, if they see the world or a situation differently than I do and things come crashing down, and I'm torn between this impulse and the impulse to throw everything up in the air and JUST SEE, DAMNIT, because I am always so cautious and this is why I am alone and writing poetry on the insides of my wrists instead of the skin of someone else who wakes up warm and cramped in my bed.
I am so whole it's disgusting and so broken in little first-world ways that it's despicable. Selfish.
I am spending these next two years learning how to BE selfish, to do things for me and to STOP making sure that everyone else is happy before I am happy. This is a self-prescribed and teacher-prescribed medication that I choke on as it makes its way down my throat. I do not know how to tend to my own happiness. I am so worried about everyone else. I don't want anyone to hurt, be unfed, be unhappy, hate me, be angry with me, forget about me, or disregard or discard me.
I am desperately trying to be heard. Just to be heard. I am shouting and waving my hands and have been for years and the only ones who hear are children and perhaps the tiny few who have understood me for years upon years upon years but those who hearts are dear to mine look at me as though I'm speaking grammelot, and it's a painful and frightening realisation. It's especially shocking to realise that I need to love myself, to trust myself, and to honour myself in order for anyone else to do these things to me. No one will find worth in me until I can find worth and beauty in myself.
“The bathroom mirror has not budged, the woman who lives there can tell the truth from the stuff they say and looks me in the eye- says do you prefer the easy way? No? Well ok then, don't cry.” -Ani Difranco