This Is My Stupid Thing

by, Cassandra

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Some people seem to think that writing everything out on paper is a good idea. I'm not one of them. I prefer to keep everything locked up tight inside, in my head, in my heart, in my soul. Writing it out, giving real, tangible proof of everything you're thinking and feeling is foolish and reckless. I know, I know. Now you're wondering why the hell I'm sitting here, writing this out, if that's the way I feel. The answer is; I have no clue. Stupid people do stupid things. Even semi intelligent people do stupid things. This is my stupid thing.

I've come to the realization that somehow; someway I've come to like the feeling of letting everything out in the open. That rush that happens when you look down and realize that blank screen or paper suddenly bear all of your most intimate thoughts. It's the knowledge that someone could, at anytime, find it, read it and use it. How they use it, who knows. It's one of the dangers. Someone could easily use this information that you so desperately needed to get rid of to stab you in the back at the most inopportune time.

It's a constant struggle inside my head. Should I? Shouldn't I? Is it really worth clearing my conscience and running the risk that someone could turn my own hopes and fears against me? Is it really worth keeping it all inside, never opening up, and wondering for the rest of my life what might have happened if I had? Is there a chance that I might miss out of something extraordinary? Or is life just bound to hurt you in the end? The questions are endless. Unfortunately, the answers aren't.

But here I am. Writing. Ranting. Whatever you want to call it. Making the biggest mistake of my life. And I can't find it inside myself to regret it. Not because I particularly like it, or even want to do it. It's just because I don't have a choice. When there's no one to talk to, you don't have a choice. You have to do whatever you can to free yourself from your demons. And this is the only way I found to do that. To write it out, and run the risk. Damn the consequences. I can't let fear of life hold me back in this.

I had a friend once. I thought I knew her. Funny thing is she thought she knew me as well. She didn't. And it's not just a lack of trying on her part. It's a lack of wanting on mine. I've gotten so used to playing this role, and nowadays I have no idea where I end and my character starts. And when you start to wish this character would overtake you completely, that's when you know you're in trouble. Make-believe may be fun, but in the long run that is all it gets you. Trouble.

I think I was so desperate for someone to look at me and see me, not this character I portray. So when it seemed like she had, I was beyond thrilled. And why wouldn't I be? She was everything I wasn't. She was everything I'd always secretly wished I could be. And she noticed me, this loner in the corner, hiding behind that once so flimsy mask. I think it was all in my eyes then. I didn't guard my emotions good enough. She saw what I wanted. But not what I needed.

I'd convinced myself over the years that she was exactly what I saw. Strong, beautiful, intelligent. I almost immediately put her on this pedestal. I conned myself into feeling so honored that she'd even look at me, let alone talk to me. Let alone be my friend. I guess it wasn't fair to either of us. She had no where to go but down. I couldn't fall any further. It was doomed from the start. I just didn't want to see it. But now, I have no choice.

I have no choice but to accept my role in this. But it's easier said then done. I can't help feeling betrayed. I can't help but feel so torn apart. So used and belittled. I set myself up for disappointment. And disappointment is exactly what I got. I'm disappointed in myself. I'm disappointed in her, or in my ideology of her. I can't stop going over it in my head, wondering where the hell it all started deteriorating. But I should already know this. I do already know this.

All my life I've purposely set my standards for other people ridiculously high. In the past, I didn't even realize it. It was a subconscious move on my part. But I always did it. And they always ended up failing in my eyes. I'd always end up disappointed. I guess inside I thought that it didn't matter in the end, because they would end up disappointing me, hurting me, abandoning me. So I beat them to the metaphorical punch. I made them fall on my terms, in my way.

For awhile I persuaded myself into believing that it was a good thing. I didn't let anyone near me. I didn't let them surprise me. They couldn't hurt me if they couldn't get close to me. This was a good thing. I was protecting my heart from inevitably being broken. But while I was protecting myself I couldn't stop the doubt that crept in. I wondered what was so wrong about me that nobody tried to get close. Nobody tried to get past this façade. I never stopped to think.

I'd isolated myself. I forced myself into being alone, into being safe, and missed out on everything a teenage girl is supposed to look forward to. After all, heartache is part of life, right? We're supposed to look forward to that first crush, that first kiss, that first break up. Pain helps us grow. I've said it myself time and time again. I think I was trying to convince myself of that. And it's not even just about the romantic aspect of growing up. It's about the trying, and even if you end up falling to get up and try again.

It's sad when you don't even know what you feel. When you have to adapt to someone else's feelings in order to feel anything. When you have to pretend you're somebody, because you are nobody. When you've lost yourself to yourself and have no idea how to get you back. When you have no idea if you want to get you back. Life only seems at have color if you color it yourself. I guess that's part of my problem. I'm stuck on black and white because I have no idea what color is my favorite. I have no idea who I am.

I draw these pictures that aren't actually pictures. They're just a mass of black scribbles on white paper. And I'll sit for hours working on these things, filling every little detail in with an ultra fine point black Sharpie mark. I refuse, no matter how big that picture is, to use a bigger marker. I do that damn detailing work until my hand cramps up and my eyes are fuzzy from staring at black and white for so long. I feel like I've cheated if I use a bigger pen. Like I'm cutting corners, or doing something the easy way. I lose any pride in my work that I may have had.

I don't know why I do these pictures. Sometimes I feel like there was something that inspired it. And I'll study it, trying to find whatever it was that made me create this thing. This want-to-be artwork. To me, it never looks complete. I've asked other people what they think is missing. My Mom tells me that it needs color. I tried color once and it ruined it. It just wasn't the same. I tried and it just felt wrong the entire time I was adding that damn color to those black and white scribbles.

I think I view them as me. I lay awake at night, feeling like I'm missing something. Or I'll go out and feel like I forgot something. I sit and I watch people as they live their lives. I study them, trying to figure out what it is that's making me feel so uncompleted. Like one of those damn pictures. I've tried to change myself, but everything makes me feel worse. Every time I try to fit in, I just feel more out of place. Kind of like one of those pieces of artwork that everyone hates, but has to be kept because it was Aunt Bertha's present to so and so, and she'll be mad if you get rid of it.

I should have learned this lesson already, but here I go again. Trying to make myself feel whole by changing who I think I might be. It's not the physical, even though I think everyone has some problem with how they look. Trust me; I'm not excluded from that group. But it's more then that. It's deeper and bigger and harder and weirder. I just can't figure out how I'm supposed to figure out what it is I'm supposed to figure out. So instead I change my look. And feel even worse about myself by the end of the day.

I think I hate myself for giving in. I think I hate that I can't help but want to be like everyone else, when the me I think I might be prides herself on being different. Prides herself on not giving in and following some fleeting tread. I just don't know if that's real me, or the me I've made myself believe I might be. I think I hate them both. Neither of them will help with this mess, and they're the one's who created it. And here I go, passing the buck again. I can never seem to take the blame for what is clearly my fault.

So someone said it was good to write out what you feel. I disagree. I fear that this isn't going to help one bit. I fear that this has just risen up more questions then it did answers. And I fear that someone will read this and laugh, or read this and think about what it is I've said and take it to heart. This doesn't help anyone in the long run, but here we are. This is written, and I don't think I could bring myself to press that damn delete button. It's that rush I was talking about earlier, ya know?