Hey, so I felt like writing. But I didn’t know what to write. So I’m here. Talking to myself. I’m eating pizza pockets in bed. I’m listening to the **. I’m cold. I’ve had a glass of summer red and it’s too early to sleep. I’m thinking about Ben. I’m thinking about my dad. I’m thinking about where I’ll be in a month or two from now.
It’s hard to wake up some days. Because I think this is as good as I’m going to get. Because I’m not so good at this. Any of it. I’ve only just mastered breathing. But functioning? Sustaining healthy relationships? I can’t even win the approval of the person that’s sole job is to love me whether I deserve it or not. My dad has given me the cold shoulder before. But this feels heavier. And I can’t help but to think that perhaps I deserve it. I’m not always very nice. In fact I think sometimes I like the idea of people thinking I’m a complete *****. If I was a therapist I’d probably say something like: “It’s a defense mechanism.” Yeah. Maybe. Maybe I’m actually a really nice and I like being in the company of others. Maybe. Maybe I’ll find success in my future career. Maybe I’ll live in a nice house and I won’t **** up my children’s lives because I never had a proper parental figure. Maybe I can give them the stability I’ve craved my whole life. In a perfect world. But the world is infamous for its lack of perfection.
What I hope to accomplish through my writing is complete honesty. If nothing else, I want to be able to be honest with myself. The one place I can do that is my writing. Honesty comes easy on paper. It’s softer. Gentler. But words spoken always seem too harsh, and too loud. I don’t know much about anything, but there are some things I do know. I know that I want to give and receive love. I know that there are parts of myself that I like to pretend don’t exist. I know that I am scared of just about everything. But…
I think I will be okay despite the odds. But I’m not sure okay is good enough.