What would I even write about if I could find the words? Everything has been said before. I can’t bring myself to write about the things in my head, the things that are true. Well, true to me at least.
How could I tell you about the jealousy I feel over things from the past? The hate and loathing and shame and pain. How could I write you a fairy tale when I’ve lived through a thousand nightmares? Where would I even begin?
If given the chance would you sift through my journal and try to decipher the broken words where I have torn through the page with my pen or better yet, the half pages and bits of pages that I destroyed once the pain gave way to rage? Would you read my words and think to yourself, “Man this woman needs help.” Or would my words stir something in your chest and make you realize that maybe we are not so different afterall?
Would my words make you cringe, would you think to yourself, “Maybe she was having a bad day…” Would you convince yourself that the smile that you sometimes see elsewhere is more than just skin deep? Would you make yourself believe my life is perfect or as close to it as possible?
If I could make myself write about how often I want to run away and hide, away from everyone who loves me because I don’t know how to cope with love unless it hurts would you shake your head in pity, would you tell yourself, “I hope one day she finds the happiness she deserves, one day I hope she realizes how loved she is”? Or would you think that I am only being dramatic, making these things up, making them out to seem worse than they really are?
If you read the words I write when I’m alone and can’t stop- can’t stop my mind, the tears, the rage, can’t stop anything- would you reach out and tell me “I am here”? Would you check up on me and tell me tidbits about yourself, ask me about myself, make an effort to find out what makes me tick? Or you would skim over what I’ve written and chalk it off to a bad day?
Once my words have torn your heart apart will you still want to read more? Will you turn every page, anxious to see how I pulled myself through this breakdown, through that obstacle, through the anxiety? Will you observe me from afar and tell yourself that you’ll just keep an eye on me until I’ve seemed to snap out of it, until I’ve seemed to just get over it?
And what about when you see that it’s always like this, well mostly almost always. Would you still open that email, visit my page, thumb through my journal? Would you still want to know what happens next?