There is both fear and happiness in loving someone so deeply.
Feeling underappreciated, unvalued, unloved.
There is this unwavering voice that tells me you did wrong, you are going to lose, you always lose. No matter how much I try to shake it, it is unrelenting.
There is an Indian legend about two wolves. The story is about a grandfather teaching his grandson about life. He tells his grandson that there is a fight between two wolves. One wolf is evil — within him is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, and ego. The other is good — he is joy, peace, love, hope serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The grandson asks his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?” The grandfather replied, “The one you feed.”
Which wolf am I feeding?
I have a tendency to do things that push people away. No matter how close I am to someone, no matter how many times they tell me they will always be there for me; I always wait for the day that they decide that I’m not worth it. I do it to everyone I love and everyone that loves me. I anticipate people to leave me and in a way it’s to protect myself — to protect myself from maybe not getting hurt as bad. I’m not really sure it works too well. Actually, I know it isn’t a healthy way of living my life. Each and every day is a battle with my anxieties of both trying to please people as well as trying to be brutally honest with how I feel and think. You would think it gets easier, but it only gets harder. I was once walking on eggshells, but now I am the eggshells. Being cracked day-to-day, hour-to-hour, by people who need me, use me. I’m made solely to be broken.
It’s getting harder to be understanding and caring when I feel like people don’t understand and care about me. I can’t expect people to respond the way I would respond to them. But should I expect people to treat me less than I treat them? Should I always have low expectations? Fuck. I think too much, I think too much.
The banging, the clatter, the screaming and yelling. Even when I hid out in the garage the noise seemed to be right next to me. I want my room. I want my bed. I want silence. My heart was pounding, I was out of breathe (even though I wasn’t doing anything strenuous), and I could not stop shaking. It felt like all of the banging and screaming were coming from inside my head. Like people were jumping around in my brain; yanking and pulling my head up, down, left, right. Light headed and a tad bit nauseated, I began to feel numb. Out of fear I began clawing into my own skin to get myself to feel again — to get myself to snap back into reality and out of panic.
It has been about a year since my last bad panic attack and I must say that this one was by far the worst.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so close to ending it.
Maybe it’s the comfort in knowing you. In the fact that we are good friends. Or maybe it’s because you understand and you listen. Or that I know you’ll be around, almost convenient. But I’m beginning to feel more than just friendship and it’s terrifying me because I don’t want to ruin what we have. But more importantly I’m terrified that I may be feeling these feelings alone.
As we drove on the 680 towards San Ramon on a Friday night, I was suddenly taken a back as I gazed out of the window. I remember this feeling.
We were driving down from the Inca ruins, the night sky was clear and the stars were shining — guiding us back to our hotel. The car was quiet, only the sounds of soft breathes coming from tired passengers after a long day of hiking and melting into an all natural mountain hot spring filled the taxi. We were at peace. We were miles and miles away from “home”, yet at that very moment, we were home. The stars shimmered in the night sky and I found myself itching to get out of the car just so I could lay outside and stare up at the stars. There was comfort in seeing the stars miles away from home — because even though I was far from “home” I will always be able to see the stars and remember that we are all under the same sky. We are all under the same sky.
I remembered that feeling. Suddenly, as my friend sped down highway 680 Friday night, I was taken back to Peru. And for those few minutes of sweet serenity, I felt like I was back. I felt like I was home again.
There is so much for me to look forward to, there is so much to live for. I need to keep fighting, I need to keep going. I need to be at peace inside myself. I need to find home within myself.
I find it hard to love myself. What is there to love? I find myself trying to grab hold of those around me to keep me stable, to keep me afloat. I use marijuana to escape myself — but lately it’s been doing the opposite. I’ve come to realize how detrimental I am to myself. I know smoking will make me depressed and hate myself more than I already do but I do it anyways. I’m addicted to mentally harming myself. I don’t know how to stop and I don’t think I will any time soon. But I’m slowly breaking down. It’s getting harder for me to pull myself together to do anything. I seclude myself as much as possible and now social environments slightly terrify me and that just makes me hate myself some more. I’m scattered and I want to run away. I wish I had the strength and courage to leave. To just jump on a plane and leave it all behind and start anew. But life isn’t that simple or easy. And so I stay. Maybe one day this’ll all be over — maybe I’ll finally reach my limit and just end it all.
I forgot what it’s like to be held. It’s so strange how comforting it is. It almost feels like a drug. Even though you may not be the one, I just want you to hold me. Just hold me. Make me feel like I’m wanted, like you need me. Keep holding me. Keeping holding me. Keeping holding me, please.