Seeing as this will mark my 2,000th post, I feel as if it shouldn’t be a random picture of something I saw and liked.
It should be a text post.
And not a special one either.
Bye.
I’m sorry I’m not good with words. That I don’t know how to act. I’m sorry I never speak my mind, for fear of being attacked. I’m sorry I can’t do anything right. That I have a way of messing things up. I’m sorry I make everyone feel bad, when things for only me are rough. I’m sorry that life is so complicated. That it doesn’t give us any truth. But I promise I will try to help, as long as you’ll help me too.
You know that saying that goes, “You are the cause of your own suffering”? I think Buddha or Gandhi or someone intellectual like that said it. Well I never realized how true that was until it practically slapped me across the face.
If you know me, which you most likely don’t, because you wouldn’t be reading this story if you had already heard it, except if you’re just trying to be nice, you’ve noticed how emotional I am. Now, in case you don’t know me, I’m pretty damn emotional. When I was younger, I would throw huge fits in classes, get sent home or put in the halls, bang my head against bathroom walls (probably a factor in the migraines I experience today), bite people, and I even beat up a guy I had a big crush on in the third grade. Yeah, I was like, nine. He moved a week later. Anyway, I should cut the flashback crap and get to the root of the problem.
What problem, you ask? At that, I chuckle, and say, “You really don’t know me.” Being over-emotional gets to be very stressful and very consuming. I’ve been told that “I need help” more times than I can count on all of my limbs. I’ve lost friends, I’ve lost loves, I’ve had people that care about me shun me away and call me crazy. But this isn’t me throwing a pity party for myself, this is me trying to figure out what’s truly “wrong” with me.
Am I bipolar? Am I depressed? Am I paranoid? Am I neurotic? Am I just completely and totally crazy? Am I meant to be entirely alone? Now, these are difficult questions to answer, but the easy way out would be to say yes to all of them without a second thought. Too bad I can’t do that because of my over-thinking brain.
I do not have a disease. I do not have a disorder.
I realize my problems, and put as much effort into fixing them as I can, yet fixing this is a lot harder than anyone thinks. You, the reader, might think that I’m probably not trying hard enough, but if I’m not, then why would I be writing this right now? Why would I have regrets? Why would I try to keep everyone I love happy?
The problem is that I can’t keep myself happy.
I do too many things for too many people, and rarely ever get a heart-felt “Thanks” or a hug, not that I beg for it. Because I put myself in this position, everyone ends up taking me for granted. I might be emotional, but I’m also way too nice.
Maybe what I need is pills, right? Or maybe to be put in an asylum? Even see a therapist for a couple…years? Maybe this will cure this-whatever-that’s happening inside of me.
Or, maybe not.
Maybe all I need is people that accept me for who I am. I need someone who understands me, at least a little, and who can show me love and compassion. As long as I have one person that says “Listen, you’re crazy. But aren’t we all?”
Yes, I get angry when I shouldn’t. Yes, I overreact. That’s who I am, at least right now. And every single person in the entire universe has problems they have to fix. We need to realize that life is a matter of fixing those problems, and becoming the little ball of brightness that will soon illuminate the whole world with beauty and color.
You may not believe it, but that’s what I want the most out of anything.
END PART I
