I'm just writing. Not thinking, but writing. Sometimes this helps, sometimes it just makes me more worried. I don't edit what I'm thinking, I'm just continuing to type what is running through my mind. I hate that I haven't been writing lately, that one year I wrote every day. All of that time, effort and ink... gone forever. Why do I give away pieces of myself to people who don't deserve it? All I want is that book back... I want to reflect on who I was, maybe I can figure out who I want to be. I know I'm not what I want to be, but I have hope that I can change. Maybe.
This self-esteem, terrible insecurity issue I have is starting to strangle me, I feel like I can't breathe anymore in my own skin. I feel awkward around my friends because I consider them absolutely gorgeous... what's worse, I can't even discuss this with anyone. I don't want them to think it pains me to be around them, sometimes it does though. They'd blame themselves, I don't want that. I want them to understand that it's my problem, my brain, my struggle.
I keep coming back to the same idea: How can I expect anyone else to love me, if I don't even like myself?
Disgusting thoughts. It's beyond old, I have felt the same way most of my life and yet I still struggle with it. If I can't get past it, and changing is a slow, painful option... I'm not sure where that leaves me. Maybe something will snap and I'll go gung-ho differ myself.
If I can manage to do anything I put myself to, why can't I like who I am?
I hate the passage of time, the vines growing on the side of the house, suffocating what memories are resting there; where my childhood is bright and sunny. The hillside that we played army men and beat the boys every time by out smarting them. The kitchen that smells of whole-wheat waffles and orange juice. The front porch that we watched the summer sun set. It kills me that we can't return to that place that is very much a part of my family's past.
I'm getting to the point of life that life and death are starting to intersect. You only experience this a few times in a lifetime; birth, adulthood and death. Each of those times are times of great celebration: births of babies, new marriages, engagements, new homes and jobs... they are also times of great sadness: grandparents, parents and friends are lost, people die, and chapters end.
I'd give anything to be a child again. The pure bliss of not knowing such sadness, or pain. My childhood memories are hazy, and golden. I was one of the lucky ones, someone who had just enough at all times. I was never spoiled, never neglected. My parents stuck together, loved us with all of their hearts, and gave us every opportunity they could afford.
It was only when I became a teenager when things fell apart. I'm sure I never made it easy, the Aries that I am was and is very stubborn. My parents aren't perfect, and we fought insistently. To this day, that relationship is still fractured, like an old injury; a broken bone that healed, but you can always see the difference in the terrain of your skin. The tiny peak of arched bone in my left foot from freshman year of college. Each time I look at it I see that summer, and each time I think back to the years behind me, there is the ugly cloud covering most of my recent memories. The teenage years were gray and cold.
I am just a person, and these are only words. It may not mean anything to any of you, my dear readers, but this is my life. Things I have stated here, not even my closest friends, nor even my boyfriend are aware of. My throat gets so dry and simply aches each time I try to force out these thunderstorms of my subconscious thoughts. Even right now, as I sit here in my warm apartment, cuddling with my kitty, watching movies and sipping tea, these thoughts are tormenting me. They're always on the periphery of my thoughts and try as I might... they consume me.
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