To whom it may concern,
I damage things. It isn’t purposeful. But like picking at a wound, I cannot let something be. I’ve never learned patience. I’ve never understood caution. I’m wide-open without closure.
I’ve mentioned before that I use to dream about being on stage and then panicking at the thought that I may not say enough. That I may not make a large enough impact. That my mouth may hold the key to changing someone’s future and I do not know it. Yes, sometimes I say that with giggles and my tongue-in-cheek.
By damaging things, I mostly mean by good intentions. I ruin myself. I get sought out by those who need something or have a void to be filled. They see my pretty face and calm exterior, and then do not understand the raging swells underneath. They see smiles and laughter, and find disappointment when I cannot heal them of their afflictions. I know from the beginning what they are seeking whether it be understanding, acceptance, someone to tell their secrets to, someone to be comfortable with so as to not feel judged, someone to love them so they may love themselves or someone to use to they may move forward from being used. I have been all these someones at some point or another. I get sought out for I am so open-minded, and people just walk right in.
It may be my fault for allowing it, but I cannot conceive of any other way. I must stay the course. I cannot stop picking at what I can provide, what means may I offer. I cannot be satisfied with what is, and am enamored with what may be. What could be? Sometimes I feel as if it’s my purpose, and sometimes I feel like I’m wasting myself. In either case, every couple years my life is made up of entirely new people than the years before. There has only been two people that have ever stayed the course with me, and this year I let them go. I let them go because I’ve always said no one should be in your life if they don’t make you a better person. We build each other, and it is a poor structure that is built of bitter bricks.
Maybe it seems counter-intuitive to call someone a loner when they’re so busy and with so many friends, or to feel alone in a crowded room – but I am and I do. I’ve claimed both things in public and at parties loudly and with conviction. But what I have never quite said aloud is that it hurts.
It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
Every time someone comes into my life and walks out, it hurts. Their footsteps seem to echo longer than I’d prefer and louder than they were deserving. I’ve mentioned before that I like to leave things better than I found them. I wish they left me the same.