Life
Something I've realized about myself: It used to be, that I took a while to warm up to people. I've been shy since as far back as I can remember, but, given a few hours with a group of people, I would open up and be myself.
That doesn't happen anymore. Now, I just stay shy and awkward. The person who used to sing at random moments, and who would say random things...I haven't been that person for a long time. I don't even remember how to do it anymore.
I've been afraid to post on here for awhile, because there is a person from my past who has been reading my blogs and such, and they've been delighting in the fact that I'm in pain sometimes. I didn't want this to become a phony journal where I pretended everything was peachy just so they wouldn't be smacking their lips over it, but I was also afraid at their passive aggression, pretending to be concerned while rubbing any fortune they get in my face.
Then I thought...you know what? That's their problem. If the only way they can feel better about themselves is to get off on my suffering, they must lead a very shallow life.
As for me...my life isn't perfect. The only person I'm close with is Armand, but that's one more person than I've had since Junior year in high school. Maybe I haven't been able to go to college, but I will someday. Maybe I work a retail job with mean customers, but at least my co-workers can joke with me about it afterwards, and I AM around books. At least I know that I can, if need be, support myself while working a job. I don't totally fail.
And even if I don't live in the trendiest, cultural-rich part of Portland, I least I don't live with my parents who used to make me feel bad about myself, and tell me that I'm "a depraved, sick individual."
Maybe I'm afraid of people, and maybe I can't relate to most of them, but I know I have the capacity to love, and I know that some people find me attractive, and that I'm not completely unlikeable.
I know that my life is not over, and that I will move on.
That doesn't happen anymore. Now, I just stay shy and awkward. The person who used to sing at random moments, and who would say random things...I haven't been that person for a long time. I don't even remember how to do it anymore.
I've been afraid to post on here for awhile, because there is a person from my past who has been reading my blogs and such, and they've been delighting in the fact that I'm in pain sometimes. I didn't want this to become a phony journal where I pretended everything was peachy just so they wouldn't be smacking their lips over it, but I was also afraid at their passive aggression, pretending to be concerned while rubbing any fortune they get in my face.
Then I thought...you know what? That's their problem. If the only way they can feel better about themselves is to get off on my suffering, they must lead a very shallow life.
As for me...my life isn't perfect. The only person I'm close with is Armand, but that's one more person than I've had since Junior year in high school. Maybe I haven't been able to go to college, but I will someday. Maybe I work a retail job with mean customers, but at least my co-workers can joke with me about it afterwards, and I AM around books. At least I know that I can, if need be, support myself while working a job. I don't totally fail.
And even if I don't live in the trendiest, cultural-rich part of Portland, I least I don't live with my parents who used to make me feel bad about myself, and tell me that I'm "a depraved, sick individual."
Maybe I'm afraid of people, and maybe I can't relate to most of them, but I know I have the capacity to love, and I know that some people find me attractive, and that I'm not completely unlikeable.
I know that my life is not over, and that I will move on.