What?
I guess I kinda just woke up combative and out of sorts.
I'm sorry. I've been trying to figure it out all day. I hope I didn't leave a trail of hurtful words like projectiles in my wake.
I'm trying to get rid of this voice, and that's partially why I speak so stubbornly. I'm still trying to figure out how to act and speak in a timely manner. When to give thanks, when to challenge, when to oppose, always to respect. It's harder than you think.
Things I will never say:
You don't understand me
Nobody understands me
You never understand me
I cared too much.
I won't say you don't understand because I've never understood myself. My father is better at getting to the bottom of how I feel than I am, and maybe that holds true for other people, and I know they're trying. If someone is talking to me, they are trying to understand.
If you turn the mirror around, the things that irritate you in other people turn out to originate in your heart too. Maybe that's why they annoy you. People are so fixated on being unique in their pain and flaws.
I have to write myself out of these cocoon-selves, squirming out of the discomfort and keeping my eyes fixed on the pinpoint of light straight ahead.
I shouldn't be doing this still. But the whole situation continues to develop, and in the meantime, I can't bring myself to jump those five feet to the green ground. (I collect metaphors like snapshots reminding me of my favorite memories.) I can't open up conversation, even though I thought I was trying to learn how to stop waiting for other people to take the lead. It's not really working, is it?
You know what I figured out though, the other day in the library? I thought all along that I was running away from here. I'd only felt that heart-tug of 'elsewhere' in my room, or in my town. But I felt it in that room, when I'd run to 'elsewhere', and I realized that I'd been trying to run from myself and now I'm essentially out of luck. Good thing I figured it out before I ran off to Montana or something. Not like I have to resources to do such things, of course.
That thing I woke up in angst over? Yeah, I'd always hoped it would make complete sense in the future, preferably in the near future, and that everything would become resolved and that everything would be better than it was, if not the same. I'd always faintly expected to be able to write some sort of a definitive piece about that whole happening and what it meant and why and how, and mostly, how it all felt and what caused it. That hasn't really happened, though god knows how much I wrote in the weeks afterward.
The closest I've come to anything I'd hoped for is I don't hate myself so much anymore, and I don't blame myself so much. I can see both halves. I still get angry though, at both sides.
Yes, I am being vague. I don't care, maybe I should embrace and refine vagueness as my defining writing trait or style or whatever.
Every time I write it gets a little bit better, and the spiral gets a little tighter and I lose a little more baggage, so I guess, to answer the question the despairing voice in my head was asking; yes, it is definitely worth it to write.
I guess I kinda just woke up combative and out of sorts.
I'm sorry. I've been trying to figure it out all day. I hope I didn't leave a trail of hurtful words like projectiles in my wake.
I'm trying to get rid of this voice, and that's partially why I speak so stubbornly. I'm still trying to figure out how to act and speak in a timely manner. When to give thanks, when to challenge, when to oppose, always to respect. It's harder than you think.
Things I will never say:
You don't understand me
Nobody understands me
You never understand me
I cared too much.
I won't say you don't understand because I've never understood myself. My father is better at getting to the bottom of how I feel than I am, and maybe that holds true for other people, and I know they're trying. If someone is talking to me, they are trying to understand.
If you turn the mirror around, the things that irritate you in other people turn out to originate in your heart too. Maybe that's why they annoy you. People are so fixated on being unique in their pain and flaws.
I have to write myself out of these cocoon-selves, squirming out of the discomfort and keeping my eyes fixed on the pinpoint of light straight ahead.
I shouldn't be doing this still. But the whole situation continues to develop, and in the meantime, I can't bring myself to jump those five feet to the green ground. (I collect metaphors like snapshots reminding me of my favorite memories.) I can't open up conversation, even though I thought I was trying to learn how to stop waiting for other people to take the lead. It's not really working, is it?
You know what I figured out though, the other day in the library? I thought all along that I was running away from here. I'd only felt that heart-tug of 'elsewhere' in my room, or in my town. But I felt it in that room, when I'd run to 'elsewhere', and I realized that I'd been trying to run from myself and now I'm essentially out of luck. Good thing I figured it out before I ran off to Montana or something. Not like I have to resources to do such things, of course.
That thing I woke up in angst over? Yeah, I'd always hoped it would make complete sense in the future, preferably in the near future, and that everything would become resolved and that everything would be better than it was, if not the same. I'd always faintly expected to be able to write some sort of a definitive piece about that whole happening and what it meant and why and how, and mostly, how it all felt and what caused it. That hasn't really happened, though god knows how much I wrote in the weeks afterward.
The closest I've come to anything I'd hoped for is I don't hate myself so much anymore, and I don't blame myself so much. I can see both halves. I still get angry though, at both sides.
Yes, I am being vague. I don't care, maybe I should embrace and refine vagueness as my defining writing trait or style or whatever.
Every time I write it gets a little bit better, and the spiral gets a little tighter and I lose a little more baggage, so I guess, to answer the question the despairing voice in my head was asking; yes, it is definitely worth it to write.
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