Self-Doubt and Validation

 I don't trust myself. My sight. My senses. My thoughts. My imagination. You hear the confidence in my voice, sometimes. You see me shift, maybe slightly. I wouldn't presume to know what you observe. My emotions don't process so quickly. Mindfulness is a forgotten dream, such as my memory. I'm hardly aware of my lingering scream. It's hidden under all of this hope. Hope that I'm finding my way in this life, finally. I'm asking for so much, I know. To be acknowledged and cherished, I know it isn't easy. Especially when these words that I write betray that words that I speak, all I ask is for time and understanding. From how many can I ask such a tall order? I must owe you a million favors for each of your smiles. I know most people don't talk like this. Does that make me special for admitting these tragedies, or does it make me to blame for any lack of change? I'm sure you could summarize this with precision and ease in a way that it'd take me more than a day to understand. These emotions may not be as complicated as I make them seem. But in saying that, aren't I betraying me? My subjective experience has as much weight as any other's, right? I have the right to speak my mind, no? And the obvious observation is that if I'm saying this here and now, then I have nobody else to say it to. Well, that's true. It might be sad to you. Might be entertaining for a few. It may even be a lie, and I just want certain people to know a certain side of me. But this is not endearing. This stew of self-pity, this self-revering. And my self-awareness doesn't change the shallow nature of my writing. It might make it a bit more complicated for you to work out the puzzle. So I make the solution a part of the puzzle. Too pitiful to overlook, yet striking enough to believe that there's more to what I'm saying. What if a brain is only made to make surface-level observations, and is left with the pain of being unable to engage with true depth? I let down my boundaries and let the world in as one last bid. A hail mary of vulnerability. I still don't get it right. And I'm left either to try again or to accept that this is the end of my journey. And I know how much you sympathize with depression, and I know how much you avoid talk of death. I can feel your ambivalence in my skin, and that's what my existence amounts to. And I know I seem despairing, and I know I seem melodramatic. For what reason would I have to let go of everything? I know it's hard for you, too. And yes, I know I only see the best parts, and, yes, I avoid your worst qualities. But I can't help feeling that there's a distinct difference between us. I look in the mirror to focus on my best qualities. I can't balance them with my worst. The two ends of these extremes battle, and I write this to figure it out, only to lose the last of your admiration. Still, I want you to tell me it's there. I want you to tell me that I'm right, and I see everything with clarity or prestige. I won't beg because I don't think it's what I need. If I had true affection, would I really see it? And one must imagine Sisyphus happy.