(no subject)
I am absolutely sick of being told how I feel.
It's the most frustrating thing in the world to me. How does anyone else know how I feel, other than if I tell them? But when I open my mouth to speak, some of the people nearest and dearest to me "correct" me. I want to scream. Kick someone. Throw something.
Everytime I spend any length of time with my grandmother; she tells me I'm miserable. I say I'm not. She says she knows I am. She knows me. I tell her she is only seeing one side of the picture, one small slice of my life. She says that I'm in a deep, dark hole. I say I'm finally feeling better. I'm finding my place in the world. That she doesn't see me even one percent of the time. I tell her the subject of my mother makes me crazy. She says it's the depression talking, the misery. Then, of course, I get angrier....which makes her think she's right. It's then I'm miserable. It's in that moment I'm truly capable of murder.
I tell him I love him. He tells me he wishes he could believe me. I say judge me by my actions. He says it's not me...it's past experiences that have made him this way. I remind him to compare me to those women. I suggest he won't find even a slight similarity. He says he knows this, and he understands this; but he still can't bring himself to trust me. So he keeps me hanging on. It's in that moment I'm lost. It's in that moment I'm capable of disappearing. Just run away, change my name, and forget my entire past.
I tell my father I'm scared. I say that I have to go. I say that if I don't I'll wonder for the rest of my life. And I won't even have to wonder long before the real trouble sets in. I tell him the truth. I tell him that I need help. He says I don't know what I'm giving up. He says the boy loves me. He says that I never need any help -- I'm strong. I say not so strong I can do this by myself, but he says that I lived through hell already...there's nothing I can't survive. In that moment I believe I could cry for a year, without stopping, and still not feel free of the resentment.
When did I get so damn foolish that I can't distinguish my own emotions anymore? That I couldn't possibly know my state of mind? Is it some piece of dramatic irony that I haven't been let in on? Am I crazy, and no one has bothered to tell me....or at the least incarcerated for my own good? What is it in my character that makes people think they know me so much better than I know myself? Are they arrogant, or am I?
For once, I just want to be taken at face value. Accepted. That's the word. For once, I just want to be accepted. For what I am. For how I feel. No insinuations. No questions. Just pure acceptance.
Can it be that hard?
It's the most frustrating thing in the world to me. How does anyone else know how I feel, other than if I tell them? But when I open my mouth to speak, some of the people nearest and dearest to me "correct" me. I want to scream. Kick someone. Throw something.
Everytime I spend any length of time with my grandmother; she tells me I'm miserable. I say I'm not. She says she knows I am. She knows me. I tell her she is only seeing one side of the picture, one small slice of my life. She says that I'm in a deep, dark hole. I say I'm finally feeling better. I'm finding my place in the world. That she doesn't see me even one percent of the time. I tell her the subject of my mother makes me crazy. She says it's the depression talking, the misery. Then, of course, I get angrier....which makes her think she's right. It's then I'm miserable. It's in that moment I'm truly capable of murder.
I tell him I love him. He tells me he wishes he could believe me. I say judge me by my actions. He says it's not me...it's past experiences that have made him this way. I remind him to compare me to those women. I suggest he won't find even a slight similarity. He says he knows this, and he understands this; but he still can't bring himself to trust me. So he keeps me hanging on. It's in that moment I'm lost. It's in that moment I'm capable of disappearing. Just run away, change my name, and forget my entire past.
I tell my father I'm scared. I say that I have to go. I say that if I don't I'll wonder for the rest of my life. And I won't even have to wonder long before the real trouble sets in. I tell him the truth. I tell him that I need help. He says I don't know what I'm giving up. He says the boy loves me. He says that I never need any help -- I'm strong. I say not so strong I can do this by myself, but he says that I lived through hell already...there's nothing I can't survive. In that moment I believe I could cry for a year, without stopping, and still not feel free of the resentment.
When did I get so damn foolish that I can't distinguish my own emotions anymore? That I couldn't possibly know my state of mind? Is it some piece of dramatic irony that I haven't been let in on? Am I crazy, and no one has bothered to tell me....or at the least incarcerated for my own good? What is it in my character that makes people think they know me so much better than I know myself? Are they arrogant, or am I?
For once, I just want to be taken at face value. Accepted. That's the word. For once, I just want to be accepted. For what I am. For how I feel. No insinuations. No questions. Just pure acceptance.
Can it be that hard?