In fact, I am told that a lot
Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls
Brought me here.
And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it every day.
And I know
That I am
I am
I am the luckiest.
What if I'd been born fifty years before you
In a house on the street where you lived?
Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike
Would I know?
And in a white sea of eyes
I see one pair that I recognize.
And I know
That I am
I am
I am the luckiest.
I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you.
Next door there's this old man who lived to his nineties
And one day passed away in his sleep
And his wife, she stayed for a couple of days
And passed away.
I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know
We belong
That I know
That I am
I am
I am the luckiest.
I'm tired. I'm tired of being afraid I'm going to turn into a crazy person. I'm tired of being afraid that I already am. I'm tired of having a chip on my shoulder, and being insecure, and being lonely, and feeling left out, and feeling like I don't do anything that matters. I'm tired of listening to people TELL me that what I do doesn't matter, I'm tired of my loved ones letting me believe that, I'm tired of telling myself that I'm going to get my life together and thinking that I'll know when I do by how my life looks how my mom says it should. I'm tired of not being proud of myself, and not wanting to look at myself, and getting sick of my own company.
I don't know how to fix anything. I don't know how to make myself better, or how to start believing that I don't need to get better, or how to know if I do. I don't want to be lonely but I don't want to have to act like the fucking cool kids to make friends. I don't want to be left out, but if I have to tell you to include me it ruins it. I don't want to be insecure and I don't want to be humorless or act like a crazy intolerable fucking girl, but I can't take it when you joke about me being demanding when I'm so fucking scared that I'm being demanding. I don't want to call you and I don't pick up the phone when you call because I don't think you want to talk to me. And then you don't call, for months, and I feel like it's my fault.
I'm tired of not being good enough, not ever, no matter what I do. I'm tired of feeling like I'm the same fuck-up I've always been except worse now because I don't have an excuse anymore. I'm tired of feeling like I've wasted all of these years because I can't justify them to you in a way you give a shit about. I'm tired of avoiding your calls during the day because I know you'll nag me about all the things I need to do, and avoiding your calls at night because you get emotional when you're drunk and I don't know how to handle that. It makes me headshy and I never know if your next words are going to be "you're my puppy and I love you" or "you're a cold, aggressive monster."
I'm tired of being jealous, and being ashamed of being jealous, and trying to swallow my jealousy, and trying to logic myself out of it, and trying to ignore it. I'm tired of feeling like a stupid, crazy girlfriend and not being able to stop. I'm tired of second- and third-guessing every goddamn thing I say because none of it's rational the way I want to be, none of it's reasonable the way I want to be, none of it's serene and beautiful and wise the way I want to be. It's all just fucking bile and whimpering confusion and I hate it. I wish there was more than that inside me. I'm not sure anymore that there is.
I don't know how I can expect to satisfy my mom when I haven't been satisfied with anything I am since I was thirteen years old. I thought getting older would be easier - I'd get nice and fucking complacent, worry about taxes and bills, and not cry myself to sleep like a teenager. Instead I'm more insecure than I've ever been, and every day I see myself turning into someone I can't stand and trying to step on every impulse and feeling that pops up in an effort to stop that process is only making it worse.
I wish all of this didn't feel like worthless, whiny first-world-problems bullshit.
Labels: Apologies, Brendon, Brian, Introspection, Katrina, Lies, Love, Rants, Stress
posted by Rivaine # 12:16 AM 
