I felt like a child writing this

    I think I've lost your respect. I don't get it. I never have. I only ever try to express myself. Are you going to make me guess as to what I said that did it? Or what I didn't say or do. Or a certain way I moved. A look in my eye. I know my thoughts don't dictate my morals. You may think differently. You may think I'm asking so that I can know how to please you or to avoid responsibility. Maybe. But if I know, I'll never be able to forget. That's why I try to be honest here. Whatever I write exists in a single representative page. But I don't tell you about the tangibles. I don't tell you about the fear that I'm a burden on my family, friends, or anyone who attempts to get close to me. I don't tell you about how I feel stuck and why I feel this way. I avoid writing about what is my fault until I feel the need to confess. I don't think you need to feel bad for me. I've never wanted pity, only true connection. And maybe this isn't the way to find that, and maybe my motivations are more complicated. Or less complicated. But I put this out there. I pull my insides out and I cringe at it all, but I can't refuse to love it, just a bit, because it's me. And it's heartbreaking to know it might put others off, and the reasoning makes me go crazy. I feel doubt and shame, doubt about doubt, wondering if I should keep most of this to myself, yet again. Is it too much? Is it not enough? It's what I have. Take or leave it, I'd like to say. But that battles the belief that I truly do have a lot to say. That we're all quite similar, and once you see somebody else put themselves out there, it makes us all feel a little safer to do the same. It helps us understand that person and ourselves as well. But I find myself more insecure. More self-conscious, more anxious. Less able to speak freely and feel comfortable in the presence of others. Maybe I felt more control knowing this was kept behind a wall for nobody to examine and critique. Laugh, cry, or, worst of all, feel nothing about it. Is this all I have? Is this all I am? I've forgotten how to respect myself. I've forgotten how to write for myself. This has happened before. The cure was to wipe it away from the internet for a bit. I don't want to do that. I want people to know this side of me. I want this side of me to be worth something. I want to be worth something. If I lay my soul bare, and you turn away, what else can I do other than sit here and stare? I'm giving you too much power. It's embarrassing, isn't it? I'm telling you that it is. Yes, I fear being manipulated. Yes, I fear that you read this and see so obviously the kind of person I am, and I feel that worthlessness. That simpleness. It invades me and I see through that lens. Everything I do becomes simple and common. I won't attribute any merit to this, it would be contradictory. I won't negate what I'm saying here in the hopes that someone might see me for what I don't. Because I want to believe you see me with merit. It's the only way I feel valuable. Why would you? Because of this? Well, I guess I shouldn't shame myself for writing this either, should I? It's less obvious, but it feels contradictory all the same. It's neutral. It is at is. Every word written, every idea conveyed, every emotion relayed. It is me. 

   

    I felt like a child writing this. Maybe it has something to do with this strange smell that I can't quite define. But I'm reminded of sitting around family, feeling completely alone. I wonder if this is my attempt to reconcile that today. Better late than never, right? Well, I'm used to being a bit late. Lately, I've been reminded of times I was reprimanded for what I never understood. I see my little brother experience something similar. I wonder what my place is involving myself there. I wonder if he'll turn out as I did. I remember choosing silence over potential rejection. I was very young. For some reason, I viewed my two avenues of relationship as either pity or punishment. I rejected both and therefore life, as I saw it. As I felt it. I wanted to drive inward in order to fix myself. Minor critiques felt like a rejection. Still do, sometimes. They always said never to write "in order to." "To" does the job just as well. I rejected small things like that. Like use a more descriptive word than "things". Like don't use "like" so frequently. Find a different word. "Okay, I'll just never speak again," I'd think. I'd go days without saying a word. Weeks, even. It didn't seem to bother anybody. Until I didn't say what I was "supposed" to say. Until I didn't speak with absolute enthusiasm to my parents or people they knew. They wanted me to make them look good. They didn't care about what happened at home. Take pride in me being your son, until your son is all that I am to you. Then I become a nuisance, a burden. And you expect politeness? Why do you yell for me to whisper? Don't panic, let me crawl. You want me to walk so you don't look like the failed mother. You want me to work so you don't look like the failed father. What about self-discipline? What about self-compassion? Are these not important to you? I realized young that you didn't understand what those were. I realized young that your age went beyond your maturity. I just never understood it. The same way I never understood anybody around me. How had you developed those skills? It's so natural for you. I must be unnatural. 

    I learned a lot from friends. Not as much as I could have while maintaining the belief that I ought to be just as mature or even beyond their maturity. That's what I believed in isolation. A part of me was willing to learn. Another part of me was willing to pretend. Another part of me lays to waste. I felt like that today. I've felt like that lately. After a year of self-hatred, deep anxiety, constant depression, I've started to build something. Just a little. It's terrifying. Sometimes I acknowledge my mental state and I realize that it's not too different from what it might have been just a few years ago. After 2023, what was meant to be a year of learning, have I learned nothing? Am I the same, can I ever change? What is my potential, when did I stop growing? Did I? What did they ever truly think of me? Does anyone believe in me? Would I believe them if they did? Maybe that's part of my challenge, now. To learn to trust in other people. But what if I lose it all, again? This time with less than I had before? I'm terrified that every positive feeling I get from you. Every time I make you laugh, every time I impress you, it will be my last. Every connection is momentary until I somehow fuck it up. I fuck it up so bad that I lose everyone. And now, once again, I want this to be read. To give it value. Because I want sympathy here. I don't think I've ever said that before. I want sympathy because I want you to be honest about what you see of me because I don't want to fuck things up. Not everything. I want to build. To grow. Maybe I need help with that. This fear is here and it's seeming real. I know that I fear the people I most trust, and so I keep trusting at a distance. I know that this distance causes miscommunication, and I am misunderstood. I know that I often can't communicate very well. I know that I imagine reasons for this gap of communication, and I imagine one or both of us as the bad guy. I just don't know what else to say.