There’s a part of me that’s always afraid of confrontation. There’s a lot of things I hold back from saying, and there are tiny bombs I try to present to the world wrapped in glitter paper and tied with a bow. There’s always a fear of being misunderstood, of being hated, of feeling invalidated, and of feeling isolated. Feelings are never like a business email, you never get a a prompt reply like “Duly noted.”
It’s difficult to put it all out there, especially if you yourself constantly question the validity of your thoughts. The problem with not saying what you feel instantaneously is that once those feelings are stored inside you, already they’re not the same feelings really. You run them through your mind and ask yourself if it’s okay for you to feel this way. But of course, there are some instances when one must sit quietly, take oneself aside and talk it through, one feeling at a time. It might be an overreaction, a product of overthinking, maybe even something that simply boils down as an effect of physical exhaustion.
One of the things my friends told me before that both hurt and and somewhat made me grateful, is that I have highly abstract problems. Problems that don’t really have any physical form, something along the lines of faulty internal wiring, of having half a body submerged in the past, half running after an illusionary future. I’m not very good at describing myself, probably because I have a very strange way of perceiving myself. I understand myself in a strange way, I’m probably emotionally narcissistic and I can always lie to myself in the best way, and maybe that’s how I’ve gotten by for a long time.
Maybe what I’m really afraid of in confronting people is coming to terms with a truth that is not what I’ve told myself all along. I think I’ve built myself quite precariously. I really like my own convenient version of the truth. But of course, I can’t live that way. It’s like living with my own personal snail shell.
I’d love to say things out loud, but I have so many memories of being burned with words that I just stop myself. Burned with words or a lack of them. Maybe I really am just too narcissistic to be with other people.
How horrid is it really, that the more I find reason to hate myself, the more I embrace myself and build my shell, patch those tiny holes and squeeze myself inside.
I’ve felt lately that I’ve wanted to stay away from people. Already there’s too animosity building up towards people who are close to me. Everything seems magnified, and illuminated. People’s words are louder, sharper.
But then there are pockets, little moments when I want to be close to people. When I need people, when I feel myself crumbling from too much of myself, and I want to be destroyed, I want to be destroyed by people. But there’s no such thing as having what you want when you need it. It’s that an empty room you come home to when you need a warm voice for a welcome, hands that flinch when your fingers brush against them, this horrible silence that you fill in by screaming inside your head.
A lifesaver on an ordinary beach day.
None when you’re drowning.
I’ve gotten so used to talking in circles and having myself as an audience that really all I do is write letters to myself in hopes that somewhere in the Universe someone reads it and even in the slightest acknowledges that it’s okay to feel this way.
But that’s hoping for too much.
It’s always a hit or a miss, since I don’t confront people I don’t have a right to wish for anything. But still, on days when I think I bear my heart to the world, I pray that no one crushes it. Or if they do, then I pray they crush it completely. So I can start from nothing.
But the end of it all is that I’m probably really very selfish, very very selfish indeed.