Name Me Stranger.

It’s been brought to my attention today that I don’t talk about myself.
At all.
And apparently that bothers some people.
And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I mean, I understand that people need to know about people to form healthy relationships with people. But does that mean all my relationships are smoke and mirrors, because I know a lot about them, but they know nothing about me?
I just… don’t like myself very much, so I don’t have much to say, and when people ask, I just brush it off with an “I’m just me, not very interesting”
But I feel like that’s selling myself short.

So: 

I clean when I’m stressed out. It’s an extremely personal thing, cleaning. I only do it when there’s something on my mind, like this question of who I am. Cleaning helps me sort my thoughts, and I usually cry when I clean. It’s very soothing, and kind of odd.

I wish I knew more. I wish I could remember more of what I learn. I feel very stupid and one dimensional sometimes. Which is why I’m constantly listening, and never talking. I love learning, and I hate that I don’t know very much about anything.

I enjoy creating. Writing, drawing, acting, dancing. People say it’s my way of exposing myself, but I don’t think of it that way. It’s therapy, it’s an escape from myself, not an expression of myself.

I’m not a proud person, I know I can always do better. Always. I’m never good enough in any aspect.  

I let the little things bug me. A lot. I’m constantly over-analyzing everything from a silence, to a look, to the things you say, and if you really mean them. And because of that, I always think people are mad at me, and they usually aren’t. 

I’m compassionate. I love helping people through things, It’s what makes me feel worth while. It’s true: I live for other people. Fuck if I’m happy, it doesn’t matter as long as your happy, because if you’re happy, I’m happy.

I’m never really as happy as I seem.  I just don’t like being sad and having people fret over me. So I’m silly and goofy and funny, because it makes me feel better about this shallow existence of a life I live. 

Small gestures make me smile. Like remembering my birthday, drink order, favorite flower, color, and jelly bean, and that I always like to sit across from people, because I like looking them in the eye.

Big, fluffy animals make me happy. 
So do babies.
And cuddling.
And stuffed animals.
And smoothies.
And rain storms (And I’m talking buckets of rain, with thunder) 
And proper grammar. 
And those who are strong enough to say “I love you”
And those who I can be quiet around, and they think nothing of it.
Because being my crazy, quiet, reclusive self makes me happy.
But being hyper and silly makes me happy too.
 
I’m afraid of the dark.
And spiders.
And dying.
And getting really sick.
And being forgotten.
And living without being alive.

Because right now, I’m just living. I’m coasting through the days, and not doing much. I don’t feel alive in Longmont, CO. In high school.  In this house. I absolutely hate it, but I’ve realized I can’t do much about it, so I deal with it. For now. 

I want to move to California.
I want to get married.
I want to have a kid or two.
I want to be a writer.
I want to be an actor.
I want to create advertisements that actually make sense.
Mostly, I want to be happy.

And I don’t feel like that’s too much to ask for.  

Do I look any different? I feel different. 
My skin feels like scales, my bones are made of iron, and my soul is leaving with every breath I take. 
What has gotten into me?

When I’m around you, I blend into the wallpaper. You never let me shine.
Never let me speak, I’m always sheltered by your aura.
I just want to feel real again. To breathe again.
I’m tired of inhaling your glow. 

So at first I fought back, but that hurt me.
Left me feeling like I was wrong.
Like I was never going to live up to your standards.
So I left. I forgot.

Now look where that left me. 
I’m an empty shell of what I was.
And I don’t think I can go back there.
I’m left with only good intentions and a suit of snake skin and mirrors.

Remember this when you look at me: I am not human. I am a reflection of the monsters that created me… 

You. Yes, you. I am writing this for you.

I know you are reading this. And I want you to know I am writing this for you. No one else will understand. No one else knows. They think that this is for them. But it’s not. I am writing this for you.

I want you to know, life…it’s hard. Every day can be a challenge. It can be a challenge to get up in the morning. To get yourself out of bed. To put on that smile. But I want you to know, that smile is what keeps me going some days. You need to remember, even through the tough times, you are amazing. You really are.

You should be happy. You are gorgeous.

I know that the weather might not be perfect. You might have to turn your back to the wind or feel the cold nipping at your nose. But you know what, at least you are there to feel it. At least you can enjoy the sun’s warm rays on your face. Or that cold February wind biting at your cheeks. You know what that means?

You are alive.

Everything will be okay.