A writer who doesn't write? What the fuck is that? Not anymore!
You always leave. Everyone always leaves. No one stays and I don’t understand why. My dad left...over and over again. I guess it started with him. As soon as something gets broken I am left standing here looking at the mess and trying to figure out how I am ever going to fix it all. And now I try really hard to make sure it’s my decision instead of yours. Because if I make you leave, I don’t have to deal with the pain of you leaving me, Again. That’s what I tell myself anyway. That it will be easier to fix, that my heart won’t break quite as much, that self inflicted pain is better than pain inflicted by someone else. I just want someone to stay. To love me unconditionally. To love me the way I love others. That’s never happened. I feel like I put so much into this world, only to get nothing in return. I know that’s not true, but it doesn’t stop my heart from aching. I can sit here and list all the great things about my life or talk about the unconditional love I receive from my children that could never be replaced. But then I would be ignoring that empty space that just wants to be filled with sunlight and music and beautiful feelings. Instead it’s filled with broken pieces. Almost to the point that it’s hard to go there without stepping on some broken piece of past. I want to gather all those pieces and make them into one huge work of art and then hang it on the wall for all to see. That’s the goal I guess. That’s what the writing is for. And maybe when it’s complete I won’t feel so alone. So broken. Afterall, I am the only one who knows how to fix me. Waiting on someone else to fill my empty spaces with love will only end in tragedy...it always has and somehow I still haven’t learned. But then my mind goes to that place that sees other people who seem to have the illusive thing that I desire. How did it work for them and not for me? What am I doing wrong? Patience….I think that may be the key. And love. Maybe I don’t love myself the way I love others. Maybe that’s the problem. Okay, so it probably is the problem. I was told my entire life in one way or another that loving myself was somehow selfish and conceited. At some point, I guess I just stopped. And it seems odd and somehow wrong to say that about myself. I do love myself and I do think I am a pretty fucking amazing person. But I don’t see in myself what I see in others. I don’t forgive myself or give myself the benefit of the doubt. I don’t love myself unconditionally. I judge myself for every little thing. I dissect every conversation, every event, every relationship. And when I’m done beating myself up and it starts hurting more than I bargained for; I search for a reason. Something that someone or something else did to cause all of this. I let their judgements and their reality become mine. And then they join my room of broken pieces.