I want to talk about it. But I cant find the words to describe it. I dont want to back to him. He doesnt know me. I want help. But I don’t want to be helped. It’s gnawing at my consciousness each day. It’s always on the fringes, never profound. It’s killing me, slowly. I want you to rescue me, yet you are the one drowning me.
You and I, we are intertwined in bizarre and dysfunctional relationship.
You care for yourself so much more than me. You love yourself so much more than me. Slowly but surely I am headed down that path.
I try so hard to be there for you when you are upset. Yet lately, the more I try the more detached I become. The more I give in, the more apparent our problems become.
You were never there for me during my darkest moments. You were never there for me even during the not so dark but still dark moments. You were my number one fan who was never there to support. You were never able to fully feel happy for my successes.
Every time we fight over your unreasonableness, the thoughts would return. The despair the anguish the rage would return. All jumbled up in an overwhelming tide of emotions that slaps me around like a little bitch leaving me so broken and frail at the end. I wish you could experience it yourself. The despair, the anguish the rage. I tried to downplay everything because I was afraid you would overly reproach yourself. It is entirely your fault. Are you stupid? If it wasnt so bad do you think i would ***************************************But I did not want you to feel that way … because I love you. Yet it is extremely disheartening to see how quickly you have gotten over your remorse in a matter of hours.
Each passing day, it hits me like brick. The lack of empathy, the lack of love, the lack of care, the lack of reciprocation. It hurts. Yet it is morphing into a different kind of pain taking the form of regrets. How did i end up in this? How did I end up with you? Am I that bad that I deserve this?
Our relationship has no meat, it is all bones. It is built on $370 earrings, $150 gaming consoles, food, money, favors, your cuteness and attractiveness. Personally to me, it is build on the fear of being alone. Materialism and superficiality cloaks the problems that belies our relationship. We speak of and act like we have intimacy ( emotional kind) yet we do not posses it. Now, when I say i love you, it is not to tell you that I love you. It is to tell me that I love you. Does that makes sense? For you, I have to ask you to say those words. Blasphemy.
I feel so beaten. I feel so weathered. I feel dark and empty inside.
When will we have the courage to say enough is enough? When will we have the courage to put an end to this? When will I have the courage to say either you change for real or I will leave? When will you have the courage to acknowledge and accept you flaws and work on changing them? When will you have the courage to love one more than yourself? When will you have the courage to say okay, lets ask someone else since we are at a impasse regarding who’s right or wrong, to allow them to provide insights and perspective foreign to us? Or maybe.. when will we have the courage to say we have tried our best, maybe its for the best we part?
I want to be crazy. Crazy over you that is. Not crazy crazy. No, that scares me so much, I still get nightmares and certain ‘sessions’.
So help me goddammit.
“The feelings that hurt the most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd: the longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are. I don’t know if these feelings are a slow madness born of disconsolation or if they’re reminiscences of some other world in which we’ve lived— jumbled, criss-crossing rememberences, like things seen in dreams, absurd in the form they come to us but not in their origin, if we knew what it was. I know these thoughts of the emotion ache bitterly in the soul. Our inability to conceive of anything they could correspond to, the impossibility of finding a substitute for what they embrace in our imagination. But what remains from feeling all this is an inevitable disaffection with life and all its gestures, a foretasted weariness of all desires in all their manifestations, a generic distaste for all feelings. In these times of acute grief, it is impossible - even in dreams - to be a lover, to be a hero, to be happy. All of this is empty, even in our idea of what it is. Life is hollow, the soul hollow, the world hollow. All gods die a death greater than death. All is emptier than the void. All is a chaos of things that are nothing. And in the bottom of my soul, as the only reality of this moment - there’s an intense and invisible grief, a sadness like the sound of someone crying in their room. In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my factless autobiography, my lifeless history. These are my confessions, and if in them I say nothing, it’s because I have nothing to say.”
— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet