I think, for many people, the hardest part of living, much like writing, is the criticism that comes with it.
Last night, I stood in my small kitchen, back against the white wall, eyes squinting in the fluorescent lighting, hunched over and crying. I didn’t feel anything; but at the same time, I felt everything.
“You don’t know me,” I told my boyfriend, and I could see the pain on his face as he registered my words. “No one does. Not you. Not my family. Not my best friends. They don’t know what goes on in my mind. And if they did, they wouldn’t love me.”
He wrapped his arms around me, but I was numb. My body was limp, my mind elsewhere.
Continue reading “Not Everyone Will Understand You, and That’s Okay”
Why did I share that? Do I just want validation? If so, from who? And why?
I sense eyes on me every moment. Watching me. Judging me. I live life like it’s a movie, walk around like I’m in some dramatic music video. They ask, “Who are you when no one is watching?”
I’ll never know. Because, technically, someone always is.
Continue reading “What It’s Like to Be Brutally Self-Aware”