I’d like to think I’m happy this way. But I’m not.
I’m even more unhappy when I pretend to be unbroken. And smile and say I’m ok and I love you and this is what I want and this is ok with me and ask myself, ‘why wouldn’t I want this?’ and slice off little pieces of myself one by one and give them away, and say, ‘I’ll try’ and ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I’ll change’
But I’m also unhappy when I’m telling the truth. About how easily bored I am. About how I only want shit I can’t have. How being actually close to people is disgusting to me. About how I have been so scarred that I would prefer to live in marginal loneliness (where it’s safe) than in true intimacy, that there are parts of myself I don’t want to share and never will.
And how there are bits and pieces of humanness left in me sometimes and they ache. They are in the corners of my mind when I do something I feel safe in, something empty and easy, and they are screaming, ‘you deserve better’ and I’m not listening. Because I tried. And it didn’t fucking work. I either don’t deserve better or I’m too messed up to function in something better.
Everything is vacuous. And hollow.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever heal or if I want to in a lot of ways even.
I know that I don’t want my pain to make me hardened. I want to stay myself no matter what. But I am not sure if that’s possible. And if it isn’t, I’m done beating myself up. I’m fucking over it. If this is who I am I will own that and try to see the bright side.
Like how I have lots of friends. Like how if I never seriously date anyone again I’ll have time and energy to devote to myself and things I like and how I don’t even like sharing or accommodating and I never have. My life is all mine.