Bohemian Delilah

I’ve been wanting to write here again. Mostly it’s because I know that once I do I’ll stop holding back a whole lot of the things I’ve been holding back. But it’s hard. I don’t always know what I’m thinking about, I don’t always know why I’m crying. I don’t always want you to see these moments that I’m so unsure. But, I do want to show them. I need this outlet where I’m not truly judged, where I can write anything I want and send it out, like a message in a bottle, where perhaps someone will see it, perhaps they won’t. There needs to be that possibility. Because the letters I write and don’t send (which is a tool many people use) feel futile, and futility is something I have issue with at the moment. We argue. Futility and me. Or maybe I just pound at his chest waiting for him to get angry.

It doesn’t happen.

I’m narcissistic. It’s who I am. It is sometimes the reflection of myself that I am looking for when I ask you to tell me a story. How do you see me? What do I look like through your eyes. I used to record my voice just so I could get a better understanding of why you react so violently when I speak.

Which is why it’s funny that I don’t like therapy.

Don’t get me wrong. I like my psychiatrist. And normally I like it when I can talk about myself for an hour each week.

But it hurts. There are things I didn’t want to figure out. There’s a reason I’ve ways of protecting myself from hurt. I don’t want to think of these things. I don’t want to learn why I lie so often, or why I’m prone to bursts of anger. It’s sort of like running, though, I don’t want to go before; I work really hard during; usually have a red, puffy face when I finish; and feel amazing and a little lighter once it’s over.

So, I’m going to come back and try to digest some of my life more often, especially with my birthday coming up. Birthdays are always a time of change.

I’ve no way to end this. I’m out of practice.