Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I narrated my life. I wonder if my trials could be stretched to make a novel of a sort. Maybe if I put characters in the place of the people in my life I could find solutions to the issues I typically avoid. Detach myself somehow… Then again, I’m no author. And my trials do not tend to be something others can relate to.
Gosh. I just need to take a deep breath and remember that it could be worse. I don’t know why I look at that stuff anymore. It is bound to upset me. But, hey, I tend to lean towards what’s negative, right?
I wish you would have done something, jerk. Then I would have seen so much earlier what a shitty position I was in. If you are stuck wondering why you chose me I sincerely apologize for being there for you and listening to your rants and sticking up for you time and time again. History won’t repeat itself.
I look at what I have now and then I think back to what he said to me. Was it all real? Was it just a figment of my imagination that everyone allowed me to believe, thinking that they could protect me through the lies? I would rather know. I would rather be aware that there is a flaw in my perception than to be told lies I fail to see through. All I heard were things like “Oh, he loves you he just can’t show it” and “He cares but it’s hidden on the inside.” Looking back I wonder if he did not know show it, then how could anyone else see it? I was strung along. Walking on a tight rope. On a fake, heightened sense of reality in which everyone else got a chance to be the audience. I thought I had found something. Someone. I hate that because I was wrong, because of the lies, I cannot tell when it is safe to accept a good thing. Is that wrong? Am I normal? I can never tell. And the worst part is, it still affects me now. The lies. The supposedly hidden emotions. The fake love. It causes me to be paranoid. To fear sudden rejection. I told the someone I have now not to promise to always love me. Any normal girl waits for that promise and cherishes it when it comes. I rejected it. Because I figure that if I reject love, if I reject what is real, then it can never reject me. I look back and I see a flawed perception, where I stop me from being me.
I am secretly afraid of many things. I fear a violent death. I fear drowning. I fear not adding up. I fear the future. And most of all, I fear that one day you’ll realize just how ordinary I am and leave.