And with that, the commencement of my “emo” crap. I am quite upset about a lot of things. I would blab it out but I still have a conscience. I still want to maintain a relationship with people so, I’ll try and keep it vague but understandable as possible. (If that’s even remotely possible)
I guess the emotional baggage comes with age. Which means, I am carrying with me 23 years worth of crap. I am not proud of how I turned out to be sometimes. I am oftentimes quite angry and take out my issues on being mean. That makes me “funny” sometimes. But humor would not always be synonymous to being a bitch, for a lack of a better word. (I would use ‘mean’ but it reminds me of Taylor Swift. I do not like her, nor will I ever) What I am proud of, however, is how I managed to have a good relationship with myself. I keep myself happy. I keep myself sane. (Kind of) I saw the importance of knowing yourself thoroughly. Being your own bestfriend. I have wonderful friends. More lovely than anyone could ever ask for. But sometimes, I have so much crap in me that I really don’t think I can tell them about in fears of them not understanding and me getting upset with them for not understanding. I am complicated and… it’s okay. They know and I am glad they do.
I am aware of what I can and cannot do. I push myself HARD. But I also am my own grandma that spoils her grandkids. And that’s not good.
Yesterday, I was babbling about crap to my mother. And I just kind of blurted out. “I just want to know if I matter to the people who matter to me.”
Kind of “emo”, I know. But it’s how I feel. And they’re my feelings. I am allowing myself to feel them. I believe that acknowledging these feelings would somehow help me feel better. Also, I cry. But that’s another story.
I forgot where I’ve heard it, but yesterday, when I was on my way home frome school I kept thinking about that line I heard that said,
"It’s so weird that we celebrate birthdays to basically celebrate you not dying."
So I’m glad I’m not dead. I’m glad I’m here typing this. And I’m even moooore glad if you’re reading this. Anyway, I’m going back to re-reading Dumot by Alan Navarra for the nth time because I think he’s the guy version of me only he writes better. But basically same threshold of anger. Meh. Whatever. *sniff*