partoftheproblem

I think one of the reasons why I’m like this – there are many, but one of the largest reasons – is that I am slow to love someone, but once I do, it’s extremely intense. I mean like Hadron Collider level intense. I don’t fuck around with love. Yeah, sure, I’ll joke around and be like “Hey, I just met the love of my life” but all of those jokes are made with the clear understanding that I’m just joking around. If I actually did feel that way towards someone, I wouldn’t over-exaggerate in that manner or poke fun at it.

At this rate, I don’t even know if things are going to be better. There are these stories of how people would cut themselves, but a decade later, they’d be in the next room over from their husband and children playing and giggling as they talk about how things will always get better, but like… That can’t be everyone. Not everyone can get a happily ever after; if they did, then society wouldn’t put it up on a pedestal.

I just want someone to wipe my tears away when I cry.  Just kneel down and wipe them away gently; hand me a tissue to blow my runny nose because I’m fucking disgusting when I cry, snot gets everywhere.  Or just like hold me. It’s something so stupidly simple and yet so stupidly impossible. I can’t fucking hold myself. I mean, I could, but it would suck, and you can’t really hold yourself and dry your face and blow your nose all at the same time.

There’s this feeling that was once foreign to me but has become increasingly familiar over the years. It’s the feeling of my chest tightening, of the lights dimming to an impenetrable darkness, so that I’m blind to everything but my crippling fear and loneliness. And at this point I’m so used to concealing it from most people – the true extent of my misery anyway – that even now, when I’m home alone, in these early morning hours, I only cry in silence.

Sometimes I ask myself what I did wrong to deserve this. What sin I committed. And always, I realize that all of this is because I had committed the simple sin of living.

What is the point of people liking you and missing you if they only show it at your funeral? What is the point? Don’t you think if people had shown you that they cared and would miss you that there wouldn’t be a funeral? That there would be an empty coffin there?  I’m surprised I haven’t died of broken heart syndrome yet; you would think with all of the emotional stress and trauma I’ve undergone, my heart would have given out by now.

I suppose, if you really wanted a short, quick, uncomplicated summary, it’s like the scene from the movie Precious. I mean, I’m taking this way out of context, which I certainly hope so because in many, many ways, the situation is very different, but it just kind of boils down to that line, “Who was going to love me?” And every time. Every day. Everyone tells me “no one.”

I just really wish I would stop crying so I can sleep. I have to go to church in 5 hours, and I don’t know how I’m going to drive there with blood-shot eyes and sleep deprivation.

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