bits and pieces of my life are truly difficult for me to speak on. other than those times, i am nearly an open book. if you get there.
my problem is not having difficulty with talking about my life, but not ever being in situations where i could speak about it.
i've made endless jokes about my struggles. i am lighthearted and i don't care for useless pity. pity never helps.
as i mention over and over, these are all simply facts.
the few friends i am occasionally able to speak about this stuff with i am eternally grateful for. i don't like keeping it in, i hate feeling like so much of myself and why i am how i am is a secret. but i do.
i know social cues, i know they couldn't possibly want to hear about my fucked up life. it's too much.
too much trauma, and in return too much pity.
i lay out facts, i get sad stares.
i try helping them understand, but it only creates a bigger divide.
i want them to know. i want them to know me. i believe i'm so much more, yet so little is known.
s.d.
