A Moment Of Introspection

07/28/22 2:02 AM

I hate to be reminded. How much I hate myself, how much I hate my body. I wish it was something as clear as feeling wrong in my skin. I wish I could don new clothes and change my makeup and feel closer to proper.

I thought of him again tonight, in a vulnerable moment. When my walls were down for just a second. Every time I think I'm past him I feel that sensation again. I miss him. It dawned on me tonight that none of the people I've ever loved have chosen me. I spiraled deeper. Quietly.

Why would they? I'm broken. I'm misshapen. It's not something they can see, but I can feel it. In my legs. In my back. I'm warped.

Walking is such a struggle. Working is often a fight for survival. I can't do the things I love, not really. Not how I want to. I thought he had accepted me despite my broken existence. I wasn't good enough.

I saw it coming, of course. But I was happy. I was loved, wanted. Or so I thought... How dare I grasp for such a thing? Love. I've learned to shut up so other people don't. I've learned not to speak my mind, or speak at all. Because when I express thoughts, people shut down around me. I didn't do anything to them, why do they treat me like some alien?

All I ever wanted was to be heard. To be seen. Just one person, even for a second. Just one single human who doesn't cringe away at my brokenness. Who isn't afraid of my Unknown. I dream too big.

I go to such great lengths to cry, these days. It's never lasts, and I never feel better for it, but I just wish for a moment for my pain to be visible. For the wetness of my eyes and blur of my vision to clue someone else in that I'm not okay with myself. I just want to be noticed.

It's funny how much I think about my death--it's never in a sense of longing for it. There have been times I've considered what it would mean. I can't think of it for more than a second, an errant thought, before it twists my heart to imagine the pain the people around me would feel. I almost feel as though I'm unallowed to die unless it's in service to someone else. No accidental death, no suicide, no sudden illness. I'm not allowed to perish without cause.

Is it strange that such a thought calms me down? At least it wouldn't be confusing, then. "She died trying to help someone." As if I expect to be a matyr, or something. It's silly to view my own life in such a way, I think.

I don't feel useless. Not entirely, at least. When I can't work, yes, I definitely feel that fear creeping in. The fear of being a burden. Is this how artists feel before they die? When no one values their work and they're starving and unknown. We all just want to be seen, don't we?

I'm rambling. What does it matter if I'm rambling? It doesn't, of course, but as a writer it bothers me. I even formatted my thoughts in this sentence structure simply because some part of me felt it was more expressive of my depressive moments when read through. Sometimes a short burst sentence just feels more emotionally weighted, I guess. I always was picky.

I suppose this is as good a sentiment as any to end on. Perhaps I'll revisit. A journal has never been my strong suit, but I feel like I accomplished something. Must be that urge to write.

Goodnight, Journal. You're a good listener.