It’s so much work to be better. It’s very hard. It’s constant effort. And you do all of that controlling your thoughts, not letting yourself think, for nothing. When life is bad, it’s so so bad and when life is good it’s just eh.

I think if a lightening bolt struck me and I died only one person would really care. And it’s very sad for him that he would care. It’s very sad for him that he’s so attached to me. I don’t think he sees the real me because if he did he wouldn’t love me so much. The way that I put other people up on a pedestal and think they can do no wrong, that’s what he does to me. Nothing is ever my fault. I never mean it. I try my best.

Well, I think he’d be very sad for a while and then he’d get over it. I estimate it would take him somewhere between 18 mos to two years to get over it.

Then he’d end up with someone much better than me.

He annoys me so much lately, because he’s always trying to make me feel better and I don’t want to feel better anymore. You know that everyone thinks I just love to wallow and nobody gives me any credit for all the years I tried. For all the days I put a big stupid smile on my face and pretended I care about anything that’s happening.

Yeah, I didn’t try. Not even a little. That’s what people think. Because nobody else is with me in this. Nobody else feels all the days that I went out into the world and it exhausted me to smile and everything felt so dead and heavy and I thought ‘I can’t stand to do this for another second, not for one second’ and I kept doing it anyway.

I tried and tried and tried and I spent years never talking about it or asking for any help, but now I am, so you know. I don’t know.

Everybody knows people who talk about are faking it. for attention. everyone knows that people who are REALLY in pain just go off quietly and kill themselves. They don’t make a nuisance of themselves about it. They just go and do it. Once a person kills themselves, that’s how you know their feelings were real. You never know until that.

My feelings don’t matter because these are the ramblings of a crazy person.

If I died, I think a lot of people would just think it was funny. I think a lot of people want that to happen.

I think my family would sigh and go “Oh well. But she always had problems.”

But what do I know, I’m just fucking crazy.

I don’t matter. I’m not real.

And it’s immature and impolite to put all of this out here for everyone to see. It’s the sort of shameful, embarrassing stuff you cover up and tuck away. You show it to doctors, in boxy little offices, while you sit on a firm couch and shuffle your feet over commercial carpeting. That’s the only right correct proper way to do it.

Nobody else wants to see it. Nobody else wants to hear it. It’s so rude of me to make you all see it.

Well, why should you want to see it?

You can’t help me. You can’t help people who don’t want to be helped.

And I guess it’s true that I don’t want to be helped.

I can’t understand what I’d be helped FOR. What is this FOR? What is it that makes all of this worth it? I can’t think of a single thing to look forward to. I can’t think of a single thing that would make all the work, all the getting better, worth it.

I can’t think of anything I want in life. I can’t think of anything that would make this worthwhile.

People like to get really cheesy and say “love.”

And then other people like to show off how intellectual they are and say “love is just a chemical reaction” as if everything we ever feel or experience isn’t a chemical reaction, as if they really just figured some shit out.

Well, chemical reaction or not, I like love. The idea of it anyway.

But there’s the idea and then there’s how it actually is.

No two people ever love each other the same. Like Maugham’s novel. I like that book, although I like the movie better. Me! I disgust YOU! That acting is great. I tried to show that movie to a friend once and she was interested until I pulled out the DVD and she saw it was black-and-white. I thought that was really stupid and I can’t lie, I sort of thought she was really stupid after that.

So people love you more than you love them and it makes you feel bad. Or your head totally pops off and you love someone who wants nothing to do with you.

Not really though. That’s not love. It kind of almost feels like it, just in its intensity, but it isn’t. It feels worse than that. Like desperation. Like a fever. Like your insides are boiling.

So put that more in the category of love-adjacent. It has something to do with the desire for love, but it’s not love. My camp counselor, my coworker with the blonde hair, every person I ever had that WHAM!-I LOVE-THIS-PERSON feeling, it wasn’t actually love. It was too needy and feverish and desperate, like I was drowning and they were only giving me little sips of air and the more they gave me, the more I wanted and I could always feel that the more I clung to them the more they wanted me to go away.

I try not to feel too much for people, because when I feel too much for them, they’re afraid of me and go away. My longest, most stable relationships are when the other person likes me a whole lot more than I like them.

But you know, I’m just a whiney cunt. That’s all.

Because I’m married and I have a husband who really loves me. I shouldn’t need anything else.

I shouldn’t need friends. I shouldn’t need family. People my age don’t have friends.

I think I should have my own family, because then I’d have more people to love, but I’m worried I’d be a terrible mother and why bring something into the world if you can’t love it properly? Sometimes I think I could love it properly, but then I think, well I bet every woman who ever had a baby thought that.

I want one so much, but then I also think “you stupid fuck. Have you seen yourself? Don’t make a human. All you’ll do is damage it. Just go lay down and die before you make the world any worse.”

I should just shut the fuck up, sit and watch Breaking Bad with my husband who loves me, stop wanting anything else out of life and just wait to die.

Well fine. I just wish it would come a little quicker. I wish I could turn my brain off in the meantime.

Later I’ll bake bread and do laundry and try not to think. I try every day not to think. I try to fill my brain up with bullshit so that I can’t think.

I’m well aware I have nothing to complain about. I don’t care anymore. I’ll complain anyway. I don’t care about much lately.

Writing it out and thinking maybe someone else who feels exactly the same way might read it, it’s just about the only thing that makes me feel better for a second.

Talking to other people doesn’t make me feel better, because I feel bad for bothering them. If I just put it up here, everyone can pretend they didn’t see it. which is sort of what I want everyone to do. I don’t want everybody to feel like they have to be responsible for me.

It’s like I had all these years of people knocking me apart and then a bunch of years of people trying to glue me back together, and now I just sort of feel like everybody paws off! Let me just be. I want to say how I feel, but it’s not a cry for help. Don’t put me back together again. It’s too much pressure trying to keep everything in place. I’ll feel so bad when I get careless and ruin all your careful handiwork, so don’t bother. I’m a lost cause.

I wasn’t always kind. In fact, sometimes I had a lot of fun being mean. It made me feel like I was big and in control. It amazed me when I could hurt other people. It amazed me that anybody gave me that power. It amazed me that they didn’t just ignore me.

So don’t get too wrapped up in the tiny violin music. I was very mean many times.

But you know, look like this is weird, okay? It is. But let me explain.

Being mean was always fun until it wasn’t.

If people were a little bothered or a little agitated, it was fun.

But when they were actually hurt? When I made people cry? Then I felt bad. So bad. Like all this swirling awful sadness in my stomach.

In 8th grade, I turned our entire group of friends against one girl. Katie. I got her ostracized from the group. And the first day at lunch, when she sat alone, looking sadly over at us, her face red and trying not to cry, I felt bad. So bad that I can still feel that awful swirling sadness when I think about it. I think about how I hurt her and humiliated her for no good reason and I imagine how she must have felt: she’d invited me into her group of oddball theater kids because she felt bad for me, because she was kind, and I manipulated and twisted the truth and played with group dynamics, nudging here, hinting there, until they all hated her. And I barely even knew why I did it. I thought about how Katie must have felt and how she’d been so wronged, and it made me so so sad that I’d done that to someone. That this sadness hadn’t existed in the world, but then I went and created it. It was fun feeling like I had some control over the world around me. It wasn’t fun once she was so sad and so red-faced, trying not to cry, because all I could think was how she wouldn’t be having such bad feelings if it weren’t for me, if I could have been nice and been a good friend.

Sometimes I wonder how other people aren’t like that. I understand being mean and I understand getting carried away, because being mean does feel good, when people are only a little agitated and bothered. But once the other person is so sad, shouldn’t everybody feel bad? When you hurt other people, it hurts you too. Except that I know other people don’t always work that way and I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that other people don’t feel it when they really hurt other people.

It sounds impossible.

People can’t be talked out of feelings. Feelings don’t listen to words or logic. Feelings don’t care about the facts. I’m way too amused by that quip I just came up with. We love a twist on a favorite meme. Anyway, you couldn’t talk me out of this feeling, even though it’s bullshit. I already know it is.

Here it is: everytime someone hurts me and isn’t sorry, it makes me feel like the only reason they aren’t sorry is because I’m not a real person. It’s easy to hurt me. I have a lot of flaws. I’m very obnoxious and exhuberant. I’m too too too too much. So I deserve it when people hurt me.

Don’t bother telling me I’m wrong about that. I already know. My feelings won’t listen to anything I tell them. That’s how I feel and I can’t stop feeling it.

I guess if I know I’m not a great person, why don’t I work on it?

I want to. Really I do. I work on it sometimes.

It’s just that I used to be like mush. I used to be whoever the people I liked wanted me to be. That’s why i used to have sex with every dude who looked twice at me. That’s what they wanted me to do. I would do anything anyone wanted me to do. I didn’t care who I was. It doesn’t matter. Who do you want? Who would you love? I’ll be whoever. Tell me tell me what you want, who you want and I’ll be that.

I want to be a little better, but I’m afraid of being mush again.

Now I have a better sense of who I actually am. I still don’t exactly feel real, but it’s better than it was.

Back then, I used to stare at myself in the mirror and think, “It’s amazing that I’m really here. That face is mine. That body is mine. Other people can see me…it’s amazing that other people can see me.”

And I guess like…what the fuck does that mean?

I have no idea. I’m just telling you what I used to think a lot and I never felt very good back then. And as miserable as I am now, I do actually feel better than I did back then.

Well, look everybody, I’ll be okay. I always am.

Just ignore me, please.

Let me entertain myself by sad-posting and I’ll get over it. I always do.

I want people to know how I feel, but I also don’t want to talk to anybody about it.

I’ll figure out some distraction. I’ll find a way to shut my brain off. I always do. I’m always okay in the end.

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Elizabeth Solorzano

Reviewing (Books I Love) | Bloging (Things That Interest Me) | Writing (Sweet Romance and Women's Fiction) as Eliza Solares

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