A lot of stuff goes on in my life that tears me apart from the inside. But I don’t talk to anyone about it. I don’t like burdening people with my crap. So I deal with it myself. And sometimes I don’t deal with it, because it can’t be dealt with, and that gives me anxiety. I go on a virtual rant. But that’s it. I don’t tell anybody the details of my struggles. And what difference would it make anyway? I’m the prime problem solver. If I can’t solve it, nobody else can. The only thing you end up doing is exposing yourself, sharing a sensitive part of yourself with someone, and putting yourself in a vulnerable position to that person. When that person – like everybody else – eventually takes sortie out of your life, you know s/he took a bit of you with her/him. So for the rest of your lives, or for as long as memory holds, those people will remember a part of you that you haven’t shared with anybody else. And they’re not even a part of your life anymore.
I am sometimes haunted by ghosts like that. If I come across one of those people, all I can see in their eyes is the stuff I told them that I shouldn’t have… and how we’re not friends anymore. And how that’s my fault, because I was the one to cut the ties.
I’m all smiles. All the time. I’m all “no problem, I’ll do/fix it”. All. The. Time. If somebody is feeling down I will prioritize their problems over mine. And what has that gotten me? The impression that I’m a problem-free non-person. I’m more of a resource than a human to be honest. I’m the girl that’s always there to help, to listen, to solve problems. Never the one that needs help, that needs a listening ear, that has problems of her own.
It’s not that easy either. That you, the stranger reading this, will comment or message me privately and ask what’s going on. Why should I tell you? Why will I? When I don’t even tell my friends, why would I burden a complete stranger with things? I don’t want to. When you offer, I feel guilty. A formal offer of “I can be your listening ear” is not real. You don’t get to show up only when I rant. Maybe it’s when I’m not ranting that I’m suffering the most.
I don’t need any drama. I don’t need the offer of something that cannot be. All I need is a friend. A genuine, caring one. One that knows how to cheer me up. One that calls randomly, sends funny texts at inappropriate hours. I need a friend that drags me out of bed and takes me to do something crazy like visit an art museum (who understands my definition of crazy). A friend that I can be silent with. A friend that won’t freak out if there’s an accidental tear. Someone that puts their head on my shoulder and dangles their feet over the water as we watch the sun together.
Someone I can double over in laughter with.