If you expect something from me, I will automatically care.
So when you tell me you were waiting all night for my message, I will feel bad for falling asleep. Even though I owe you nothing, barely know you, have all the right to sleep whenever I want or need to (especially seeing as I struggle with falling asleep). So I should be happy I dozed off so relatively easily. But, you showed you cared and that it bothered you. You articulated expectation, you were disappointed by something I did (or didn’t) that had no real direct correlation or connection to you. I will still care, feel bad, guilty, inclined to fix it or make it up to you. Did I mention I barely know you?
Why am I like this? (and seemingly only I in this whole wild world) Because I know how it feels to care and not be cared about, to grow attached a little too quickly and cultivate rapidly expanding expectations based on a needle point sized probability of reality. I have been mistreated, dismissed, disappointed, led on, kept in the dark, lied to and cheated on so much and many times. Still I will always (regrettedly to my own ego and self loving properties) believe in the best of people, hope and pray for the best in their lives, give another chance each time the former expires, let people cross lines I’ve chalked down in blood, keep giving more of myself even when I clearly receive nothing in return, pretend I’m okay with what happens while I’m dying inside. Why? Why am I like this?
I am care. The very definition of sensitivity. In both its light as also dark magic. Now I only have to learn how to apply this all to myself. And as I tred the silver silk line that is this process, I slip every other step, back into familiar default patterns. Two steps ahead, always followed by one backwards. Still moving forward, though, through constant setbacks. Crawling through layers, scratched by the cracking of surfaces I break through and rise up from, ready to fall all the way back for the slightest sign of care from anyone who’s willing to show it. Not out of desperation for attention, rather despair for the acknowledgment and existence of unconditional love. Not because of weakness, but from the urge to mean to others what I wish I could mean to myself.
struggle
Survival is selfish.
My neighbors might think I run a bdsm dungeon, because at times I scream and cry so loud that it sounds like I’m being tortured.
Which, essentially, I am.
I have episodes of depression and anxiety attacks that are so severe. When every fiber in my body is conspiring together to hurt myself.
In the pure desperation to overpower myself, I have no sense of control.
By any means necessary, I have to protect and save myself.
From myself, by myself.. that struggle not many will understand.
I can’t rationalize myself out of it, there is no logic or reason.
There’s only survival.
Calming myself down could actually turn out to be more dangerous.
Every episode asks for its own individual approach. One time, a cigarette might suffice. The next day a walk could ease my nerves. Another moment I will collapse in the weakness of my flesh and dissolve in the saltiness of my tears.
There is no way to prepare or prevent these attacks from happening or coming at me.
There’s no way to know in advance how to deal with that particular anxiety that’s going to infect me next.
Once I’m in it, I’ll fight with all I have to reach through and make it out alive and unharmed.
By any means necessary, I won’t apologize for how. Survival is selfish.
Truth Beyond Mystery 