the paradox

One of the worst things about having a crippling past is everyone else.

It’s being angry at and jealous of those who exemplify the perfect clueless life, but it’s also an endless cycle of comparing yourself to them. Never good enough. Never stable enough. Never whole enough.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that everyone has fears and losses and memories and pain. Different magnitudes and different stories, but we all do. Of course, the reminder brings instant guilt, an instant “who am I to judge them? I don’t know them as well as I think I do.”

But you can’t help but see everyone else appearing to get on with their lives, broken as they may also be, and resent them for appearing okay, much as you probably appear the same to them.

trapped in cages/ forged with our own hands, as I put it once in a poem from childhood I recently rediscovered. I guess it’s why the Internet feels like home. Because without the social protocol of the real world, everyone’s more real, more human.

Sorry. This is unlike me.

I’m… just having a hard time bouncing back. It’s been a rough few weeks, and I would say that I can’t wait for the end of the year except I realize that’s not true every time I remember where I’m going. This summer I have to face my demons, return home - fuck that, it’s not my home anymore - for what I hope to be the last time.

I don’t know if it’ll bring closure or just dredge up more forgotten memories. And judging by how many times I’ve found myself curled up on the floor this last week, I don’t need any more of those.

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