I haven’t updated in a while, I know. I’ve been writing little bits of poetry here and there, if you can call it that. Also, I suppose things were going rather well lately, and I didn’t feel that same need to pour my heart out into words, like I used to do.
I can’t seem to understand myself, sometimes. As a Psychology student, we’re taught to examine influencing factors, the correlates and the causal. Yet, I look back and it feels like I can’t put my finger on any particular incident or phase that has made me the person I am today. I feel so broken, sometimes.
Still, as time went by I’d learned how to deal with my demons. I keep them where I can see them, and they’re usually quite manageable. It only gets complicated when other people come in. It’s not so easy explaining to people how you feel, when it really isn’t as simple as an emotion. How do you really explain ‘anxiety’, when you know that as much as they would like to, they just can’t understand. How long can you create excuses for your irrational behavior before someone calls your bluff? Not very long, it seems.
At the end of the day, I find that solitude suits me best. I explain myself to no one, and I am not obligated to pretend, or make excuses. I’ve grown weary of human interaction. I’m tired being misunderstood and treated like someone I’m not.
Don’t let the opinions of others bother me? People can say and do as they like, and it is up to me to decide if it affects me?
Sure. Possible. But it’s so hard. So hard. What with the ruminating that goes on and on and on, like an embarrassing moment being replayed in your head over and over and over, only almost every moment is an embarrassing one. You just don’t get to have that peace of mind. I suppose that’s why they call it that – anxiety. At the end of the day, it’s not what people say, or do, that destroys me. I destroy myself.
Over, and over.
I know that my writing isn’t exactly very cheery. I get it, I really do. I do write about lighter things, just not very often. Some words come from inspiration, and others from pain. Maybe someday I’ll have my answers. Perhaps even discover my true purpose or place in this world. Why would I be etched into the lives of others and not have the tools to keep the gears moving? I don’t know. Someday, I will. I hope. Maybe then, I’d actually have friends who’d listen, not the ones who pretend to, and not the ones who only hear me.
And so we move on.