stop, don’t you get it? i dont want to be with you. ive told you to your face, but here you are. i dont want you. i dont feel anything for you. im sorry, but i dont. stop looking at me like that. and dont wait for me, either. if i wanted you, then id have you.
im on both sides.
i guess it’s human nature to be comforted by a likeminded person. we all innately want to feel like we fit in, so when someone “gets” “it,” then we feel at ease – at home, maybe. and i agree with that, but while it feels comfortable, i desperately want to think unlike anyone and everyone else. i want to be singular – not better necessarily, just different. i want people to hear me and think “wow, this girl is something else.” but thats a lonely life.
i broke nicholas’ heart. and i smiled when i did it because im a sick fuck who knows if i sever a relationship – if it ends under my knife on my terms – then i cant be hurt. id much rather the blood on my hands than spewing out of my heart. sorry, nick.
anxiety is control. anxiety is lack thereof. anxiety is exhaustion from being the glue of the household – the crafting of personal questions i dont listen for the answer to/the seemingly effortless way i highlight common connections between roommates/the forced smile i bear when working to improve my broken relationships with those in the house. anxiety is the unbridled fear and racing heart when your roomates joke around without you. do they need me at all? i work so hard. im never appreciated. do they notice my efforts? do they see through my forced façade: peacemaker? my heart is racing and thumping and my blood pounding and soaring. im pulsing. im nauseous. anxiety is this and every carefully crafted notch inbetween. anxiety is controlling, consuming. anxiety is this. im going to be sick.
and sitting by this fire, wishing i was asleep in bed while sitting next to leah and shannon, i realized how detrimental depression is to living. not life, living. depression doesnt do shit to the physical act of life – you’ll be fine physically…for a while. BUT almost more importantly, your ability to actually live is diminished. i say “live” as feeling/breathing/experiencing. “living” is an experience. “life” is pumping blood through your veins and getting by. i’ve just sat by this fire through a storm and i watched it fight to stay alive – and that’s all depression is. fighting to stay alive – which is hard sometimes, definitely. i guess im not saying its easy – whether you’re depressed or not. but, living – truly breathing through your pores and feeling the warmth of the fire and having the energy to stay up past midnight with two of your friends and willing the strength to keep your mind and yourself in the moment is brutally, debilitatingly crippling. depression is in the shadows, and all i want to do is stay awake. but i can’t. fuck this life, man. i admire the fire. i strive to be the flame.
i want to hurt people. i want to feel them squirm. i want to feel their pain. i smile in the darkness during “hard” conversations because break ups with “temporaries” mean nothing to me. they make me laugh. i’m fucked up, and i love it – it’s my favorite part about myself.
“dark and twisty,” as Meridith Grey said, but worse. i love hurting people bc at least its not me getting hurt. fuck everyone. fuck you. BUT at the same time, i love getting hurt, apparently. i’m looking at you, tim.
i cant appreciate things/places/people. i cant laugh deeply. i cant feel the sun’s heat. i cant smile without thinking i should. i cant get out of bed. i cant get out of my head. i cant breathe properly most of the time. i cant stabilize my heart beat. i cant eat. i cant cry. i cant focus. i cant see. i cant feel anything, ever. i want to, but i cant.