This is probably going to be my whiniest post to date. But I’ve just got so many things that I’m thinking. I had to get them down on paper. Or pixels, as the case may be.
I overthink everything and I feel way, way too many over-the-top feelings.
Many people have told me this, and I like to think I’m pretty self aware, so I recognize it, too.
I let myself get stressed out, and it serves absolutely no purpose. Yeah, I’ve got a full schedule. But so do lot of other people, and I’m the one that can’t deal with it.
I get so frustrated with everything. I’m shitty at putting on makeup and nail polish. I don’t know why—my hand isn’t steady enough or something. Sometimes I think I’m a fucking terrible violinist. I work so hard and so long but I’ve never had a private teacher, I’ve only learned as part of my public school orchestra. There are some things that I just can’t teach myself.
Most of the time I love it, but there are times that I just fucking hate my body. There are some days when I just feel so fat and ugly that I don’t even want to leave the house. But I’m pretty sure I’m not ugly. And I know I’m not fat. I just worry so much about how other people see me.
Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with everything I do. I’ve got straight As right now…well, A minuses. I can learn my routine in dance class…but I’m not flexible enough to actually do jack shit. I worked really hard writing and practicing a speech for speech and debate…and got third place out of five at the last tournament.
I’m not doing poorly in my life. I’ve got a pretty report card and some nice moves and a shiny medal as proof. But sometimes it feels like everything I do, I fall just short of the mark.
Some days, I’m absolutely bursting with energy, thrilled to take on the day. But others? I’m so apathetic I don’t even want to get out of bed.
I feel too much. I love too deeply, and get burned for it. I get too hurt, when others would shrug it off. The littlest things make me too sad, and the littlest things make me too happy. I get told all the time that I take everything too seriously. I’m too driven, too determined, and it’s making me exhausted.
I feel too, too, too much. And everyone knows it. But do they ever stop to wonder if maybe, sometimes, I just want to feel nothing at all?
I don’t mean killing myself. I’ve got too much left to do in my life and too many people would miss me. But sometimes I really, really wish I could just turn my brain off.
I wish I could not have to worry about anyone else. I wish I could be only responsible for myself. I wish that people would just make good decisions and clean up their own goddamn messes. I wish that I didn’t have so much responsibility.
But those wishes? They all vanish when I’m in the moment. I fall back into the role I’ve assigned myself—the comforter, the good friend. I’m practically a professional when it comes to talking people down off the ledge. Or, at least, making sure they don’t do more than dangle their feet over the side.
Sometimes, I think that I’ve gotten so good at telling other people they’re beautiful and important and worth it, that I’ve forgotten how to remind myself that I am, too.