tears for things that have nothing to do with you
This week, like all of my weeks here, has been a first of it's kind. Flurriesome and breathless, I ran from place to place, with not enough time in my room and five emails between myself and my therapist. Making friends is hard right now, not in the way it was last week or the week before. To recognize that you could be wanted is also to recognize why you are wanted, and why you are making yourself wanted. Why you get invited places, why you weren't before, what you're doing to connect with people, how it causes a sharp ache in your back. Problems that are not mine become my own out of no one's volition but my own. Problems an Atlantic ocean away, problems in Wooster and Gambier, Ohio, problems down the hall and problems in Eastern Europe are embraced with begrudged arms. I sabotoge my experiences with others by placating myself with problems that are not my own. It does not feel like care, it feels selfish and tiresome, and you push people away without thought. For self preservation, you honor it, you indulge in it. Cheat on an exam, ice someone out, starve until you binge. Smoke a pack of marlboros is my new one. Soaking in self hatred not out of fear that those around you hate you, but because you do not know how to control the body you fight so hard to supress and shrink. I have yearned for years and as I cease such yearning, I retire, exhausted, angry at no one, for no one.