Ignore if you wish. I’m not looking for pity.
It seems a little bit stupid, but the smallest things get me going like a rain storm.
It’s sounds dramatic, but when I see a child laughing and running around with other kids their age at the school playgrounds, my chest starts to feel like it’s caving in on itself.
I know it sounds like nostalgia but it isn’t. How can you be nostalgic about something when it never really happened for you?
I mean, yeah I had kids my age at the time to play with, but those kids were my cousins.
I remember never wanting to go to the playground when I was younger, or even go to school. At all. Like those places where monsters personified and if I went near them, they would eat me alive.
And it makes me want to puke my guts out knowing that even at the age of six, I was scared of those places. I was shy, we all were, but it wasn’t shyness that had me terrified.
Those kids were the reason. Every single one of them were the reason. To the adults they were children, but to me they were monsters.
I don’t know what set them off but all of them united to make my life hell. Them, the Kings and Queens of the Playground. Me, the Lowlife of the Bathroom.
I’m very glad I don’t see them anymore. The monsters of elementary school needed to stay at elementary school. Years since I’ve seen them.
I guess my chest hurts because I know without knowing that that could have been me, playing with other kids without fear. That could have been my childhood.
Another dramatic small thing is my family.
I love them dearly, I honestly do. But the people you hold close to your heart are just that, close to your heart. They can tear you apart instantly from the inside out without even trying. Even when they don’t mean to.
The smallest things are the worst.
You wouldn’t understand.
Don’t you do anything right?
God, your stupid.
You don’t listen.
I don’t trust you.
I love you, but sometimes I wonder if I should just stop believing in you to succeed.
I love them, but I hate them at the same time.
Even looking at my siblings, or my cousins, or my parents, uncles and aunts, grandma and grandpa, I get the urge to cry.
I failed them. Oh god I failed them. I don’t even know how or what I failed them in, but I did. And my lungs feel like they’re filled with needles and my heart with razors and my head with the heavy feeling of I failed them.
Dramatic, but it’s honestly how I feel.
I’m not sure why i’m typing this for you to see, this is personal after all, but I just had to. A bit whimsical, but necessary. And I hope that the pain of my being will dim in time.