Self under self, a pile of selves I stand

I was recently told that I’m distant. That when it comes to things which really matter, I keep it bottled up. I thought that strange because I always did consider myself an open book. I guess not. One of my friends was supposed to have been pranked on radio which was airing tonight and I had the FM on and was sitting here, waiting for it—it still hasn’t come on, but as I was sitting here, I suddenly got thinking about what came up during one of the talks between me and my best friend.

Truth is, in the past, I have been accused of being detached. The first time that happened I just laughed outright in their face, because I am the most emotional person I know! I am! I am incapable of keeping it inside; sooner or later it comes out. That is what I thought.

But I recently realized that it was the truth. I do distance myself—and no, it is not because of some pathetic, cliché fear of being hurt (though a friend did think it was). I have no reason to fear that. No, actually, and as stupid and teenager-ish as this sounds, it is because it’s just easier that way. When you tell people, they think that you expect them to help and so they start telling you all these things you should do, or how it’s all going to be better; and I see them trying so desperately to help me. And I’m touched. I really am. But I just don’t want them to be feel obligated somehow to give advice, because when I tell someone something, it’s not with the expectation that in exchange for me opening up to them, they should have all the answers—no, I simply tell them for the sake of it. It’s just me stating facts—like saying that the school football field is green.

And sometimes, when I do tell someone what is really going on with me, they tend to not like it. It’s a given that you have these ideas about someone—and I know I should not be surprised when they expect something specific of me, but I really can’t help how I feel. I should not be made to feel guilty about them.

For example, this blog. This is where I really, really, open up. And some people who know me in real life know about the blog and sometimes they read it. When they see the more depressing entries, they get upset and start text-yelling at me. Accusing me of depressing them too and wondering what the hell happened to me. They say I should just go back to being the happy-go-lucky, carefree girl—how everyone just wants that cheerful person back. But you see I never was that girl. And I still am that girl!

I guess what I’m trying to say is, she was a part of me—and still is—but that is it. She is simply a part of me. I am no single check box. I’m jumbled and upside down and like mirror-writing. There are sides to me no one ever sees—not even my mom who I love and trust with all my heart. And the reason is that, they just won’t like it. It is not fear of rejection—no I am simply sparing them. They have this image of me in their head and it is organized and the all the puzzle pieces fit and it’s all very neat. And I really do wish I was too, but I’m not. I’m contradictions and clichés and quirks and a bore all rolled—no, stuffed—into one.

When I say or do something which even hints at there being more to me, I see how they struggle to come to terms with it. They are not rejecting me, they are not disappointed in me—they are simply confused. Lost. They want me to be happy and believe me to be and normally, I am. Except when I’m not. But I can’t tell them about those moments because they get worried and sad…and confused. They want to help—oh how badly they want to help. They just don’t see that I don’t want help.

Yes I have cracks and chipped-off ends, but I am not broken! But they think I am because they simply cannot bear for me not be neat, and together and awesome.

I believe in working through things by myself. It might take a while, but I know I will eventually get there and sometimes I ask others for directions and even then, only if I see no light. But I normally tend to regret ever doing so, because even though they might have wonderful insights and really do help, in the process, they also get insanely worried.

I know this is extremely ungrateful of me. I can practically smell the tomatoes and rotten eggs you’re probably throwing at me right now, all the while yelling “You unfeeling, cruel ingrate!” and I am sorry.

Just another one of the things I regret about myself.

A person I used to know said that even though I talk a mile a minute, and about everything from the Rolly Polly show to Leonardo Da Vinci, I never really say anything—not about myself. He said that I trust people, and trust them quite quickly, but I still never voluntarily divulge any information about myself—and by myself, I mean myself—not what happens at school, not some book or show I found, not any fights with friends, but about myself.  This was way back in seventh grade and I never thought twice about it—after all, the idea of being mysterious quite appealed to me because that was something I was never capable of being. I was the overly enthusiastic girl who burst into songs or quoted from the Little Women or What Katy Did or even the Famous Five randomly (people never seemed to know I was quoting them…I suppose the quotes aren’t all that distinguishable…)

But yesterday, a close friend of mine said I am detached. And I was confused. Don’t I seem an open book to you? Aren’t I transparent? Do I not wear my heart on my sleeve?

Apparently not. But I don’t think I would be able to change that. Even here, this place which is supposed to be my…umm…man-cave (yes, I know, I am no man and definitely wouldn’t last in a cave overrun with poisonous spiders and snakes, but that my friend, is a minor glitch), I still cannot bare it all out. I almost did once, with one of the posts, but was so vehemently berated and yelled at and asked to just stop writing stuff like that because it “simply isn’t true”, that I swore I would never do it, because, obviously, the person just couldn’t handle it. I felt incredibly guilty. But then I realized that I am allowed to say things like they are for me—they might not be the supposed “truth” but they are my truth and I should not be made to feel guilty over it. People in my life, I love you, and this is not meant as some sort of offensive rant. I’m just telling you why I am closed off and am pleading with you to accept it for what it is when I’m not. You tell me you want to know me, and yet are so scared when a side of me you didn’t expect timidly peeps out. I love you and I know you love me. I know you want what is best for me and just want to help. But as I see you fret and wring your hands and look around for something—anything—with which you think you can ease my supposed “pain”, all I want to do is just undo what I did and somehow let you go back to believing in the neat, organized, awesome me. You have to understand, I am going to be okay. By myself. I can handle it. I am not broken—fractured, at times maybe, but definitely not broken. I can handle it.

And there are times when I cannot. But you should know, that these are few and far between and very, very, brief.

2 thoughts on “Self under self, a pile of selves I stand

  1. I hope you’d excuse me for bombing you with comments but I feel obligated to comment on every post of yours that I read

    because they’re all so damned beautiful!

    Also, you don’t need to be a man to possess a man cave (which by the way are not synonymous with bat caves)

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Do not apologize, this is wonderful. Thank you for reading! Even if it is slightly cringey stuff like this one from years ago (never a good idea to re-read your old stuff)
      And woohoo man cave.

      Liked by 1 person

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