I Continue

I won't let you make me feel weak in my sensitivity. I won't feel weak in my sensitivity. I often feel weak because I don't understand. There must be a reason for this pain. It's true that it's often undue, dysphoric, but it's also the reason I care about your feelings in these ways I do. I feel guilt and shame, and that's why I shut down, too. That's why you don't see change. But I have changed my mind, thought much, and I've decided decent approaches to difficult situations. I'm bound to miss something. I'm bound to miss a few things, but I'm obsessive about getting it right. That's why I can go so wrong. I believe in critically conscious conversations, they can bring to light and fix many problems. I believe if I get it right, if I can help you feel comfortable, we can learn how to coexist with clarity. But the onus is not always on me. Not only that, that relies on your being obscured from some truth. Some truth I put it on myself to find and live up to. Why? Why can I not be outwardly rude and angry? I have before, and the guilt is excruciating. I'm sure childhood has the answers, in my mother's own sensitivity which often made me feel guilty for speaking my mind. I'm not playing the blame game, I'm old enough now to influence my own emotions. I don't quite believe that, but I know it'll satisfy some people. I feel alone without blame. I think blame is a form of connection. A reason to hold onto somebody, something. I feel naked, don't judge me. I'm self-conscious, look at this mess. Intellectual? Please. Stop, look at me. Demeaning myself when I blame someone else. "Take responsibility for your emotions and actions," the voice tells me. It's attempting to be kind but it hides an outburst of pain and anger. "I don't know how," I reply, timidly. "I don't know what that means." I start to feel like a kid. "I shouldn't feel this way," I think to myself. I search for connection. I search for an escape through honesty and wisdom. I meditate, I'm mindful, I let music carry me. I hold tight the contradictions in spirituality, philosophy, and theology. I search for answers to pain in psychology. I recognize that I am not alone, and there are many others that feel and think this way, but I minimize that to a platitude, a mental health slogan. It doesn't change that I am and I feel this dagger in my chest. This tension in my back. The sleep that feels too light to liberate my consciousness from exhaustion. The hope that I can speak freely leaving me, accepting the dwindling of my revolutionary flame. The privilege I have to learn and live to be loving to all squashed by a thought that may or may not be true. I feel uneasy. I feel unliberated. I feel lost. I feel confused. I need sleep. I need water. I need exercise. I need connection. I need therapy. I need love. I never know if I feel it. It makes it hard to consider. I know the steps, and I have rational faith. It's hard when these minor roadblocks becomes sinkholes, and I all too easily lose my sense of self. But I continue. I continue.