polar extremes.

about expectations.

Expectations kill.

And that’s why I decided to stop doing it, expecting. It’s better for the mind, better for the heart. It makes things easier, because when you don’t expect, you don’t get disappointed. If people can’t disappoint you, they can’t hurt you.

And, sometimes, when you least expect something to happen, you can be pleasantly surprised.

And even if it’s not something great, I’m sure it will be something good.

Expect less.

Surprise more.

Live.

a bit of self everything.

In the past five years I’ve had crisis. Maybe I should extend it to almost ten years? Things happen fast, sometimes.

Dad leaves house. You’re fifteen. You spend a week in bed; you don’t even remember it. You have a girlfriend; you never come out of the closet. Dad gets married; you hate his wife, you hate him. Grandpa dies; of cancer, of displeasure. You break up with the girlfriend; you fall in love for your best friend. You graduate, you don’t know what to do, so you just do what people say would be best for your. Your best friend, who was apparently in love with you, tells you she’s seeing a guy. You break, and you break so good you’re sure you won’t even be able to repair yourself. You decide to become amazing to make said best friend regret everything she’s done to you; you give up on it months later. You close yourself, you stop talking to people, stop seeing your friends. You start college, and it sucks; it takes you two months to even talk to someone in your class. You don’t let anybody get close, you don’t make friends; people will only hurt you anyway, you don’t need them. It takes months for you to agree to go out with them. Second year you get closer to them, you don’t realise it then, but you start opening up to people. A girl’s infatuated with you, but the moment you find out you freak out; you freak out so bad you never speak again. New friends come, the circle becomes a bubble, and you hate change; you hate it so bad that it takes you months to get acquainted to them. Third year you’re studying hard, clearly doing something you don’t want because you don’t want to hear you’ve given up on something again. Same year one of your best friends asks you out, only to hang out with her girlfriend instead of you; you argue and you don’t talk to her for months. You have panic attacks, you stop leaving the house; you do exams and exams to try and figure out what’s wrong and nothing comes up. You decide to find a safety blanket and get better because people clearly don’t understand what you’re going through. Fourth year the panic attacks stop, but you’re so stressed you’re having break downs, you decide you really don’t wanna do what you’re doing; it gets bad to the point that you’ll have to go to a psych ward or any place that you don’t have to think; you make a girl cry, for no reason at all. You decide to calm down, and become Miss Chilly Willy for everybody; thankful that nobody can see inside your head. You graduate, without having any idea of how you managed to do it. You start working; and then you start working again; apparently you’re better when you’re stressed and working two jobs and clearly not having time for anything else. You give up one job after six months, because you’ve decided it’s time you took care of yourself. You do nothing. You complain a lot; hoping something will change because of it. Nothing changes. Maybe you’re more bitter. You never talk. Sometimes you half-talk, half a story, half of something that happens; you always try not to make yourself look vulnerable to others. People think you’re really strong; you think you’re an idiot, a coward. You’ve thought about hurting yourself, you’ve thought of killing yourself, the only thing you did was punch walls and cry and feel miserable. You’ve been labeled the unreachable, untouchable; you’ve never felt more alone. People decide you need to let go, you need to hang out and hook up; and as much as you agree with them, it’s not like you’d be able to bring yourself to do it. You think countless times about going alone to a club just to see what happens, you never have the courage. You think of leaving. You think about leaving a lot. Another friend (apparently) picks her girlfriend over you, but you say nothing; you’re sure that you’d do the same. You talk about it with other people, and it helps much more than you’d expect to. You have weird dreams about people you shouldn’t even be thinking about. You miss people. You think about leaving. You sometimes tell people how you feel; you often feel like crying, you almost never do. You’re pretty sure you shouldn’t be walking and talking and looking normal; you know more than one person that, in your place, would be cutting, hurting, drinking, hurting, taking pills; you also know some people that would try and get better. You just don’t. You’re so tired. People are so tiresome. People suck. A lot. Funny because you always seemed so sure that some things were past you; but then one day you find something, and that something trigger everything back. It makes your feel like crying, like scratching yourself until your skin is raw, like banging your head to a wall. Nothing’s better, you’re not better; were you ever, really? You don’t have the answers. You never had them. Does anybody? It’s all so tiresome, all so wrong. And you don’t even know what you want; you have nothing, you’ve done nothing. As much as people say you have, as much as you’ve said you have, you don’t really feel like you’ve done anything. Maybe your self harm is the worst kind of self harm; you’ve never touched yourself to hurt, but you have so much in your head sometimes you can barely breath. Like right now. You feel like crying so bad, and you do nothing. It’s ridiculous, it’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.

“Why’re you crying?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s with the text?”
“Nothing.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an e-mail, mom. To a friend.”

And then your sister hugs you, and you cry. And she’s little, but you’re the one who feels tiny. So tiny next to this little girl who knows everything she wants, who has all the time in the world to figure things out. You envy her for that. You haven’t been sure about anything in your life for a while now. Actually, you’ve never felt more lost. You hate yourself a little more each and every day. You’re sure you wouldn’t hurt yourself, even though the thoughts are there. You don’t have the courage to do anything, never have, never will. You’ll just carry on until you lose it; because if there’s one thing that you’re sure of,is that one day you’ll lose it. You’ll lose everything.

i don’t love you anymore.
goodbye.

I don’t think I ever hesitated to send you an email before now. I’ve sent you happy, sad, giddy, capslock, stupid, informative; I’ve sent you more stupid emails, for no reason, just to know if you were okay, than Incan remember.

And now I catch myself hesitating. You’re one of my best friends, you who trusted me enough to tell me many, many things about yourself. You who could be my own kind. I hesitate, even though I’m sure that you’ve been wondering why I haven’t given any comments about it.

In all honest, I don’t want you to know that I relate. I’m sure you know it, but it’s one thing you think it and it’s another I say it. It feels like… If I tell you, if I say “I relate” you’ll see it, you’ll see me (as I’m sure you’ve seen before, as I’ve seen you).

And that’s just the thing, isn’t it? You’ve trusted me, you’ve shown yourself to me. So why am I hesitating (dreading) what you’d think of me if I showed it to you, if I told you?

This doesn’t make any sense.

I’m a bird in a cage.
Cage which I built myself.
Cage which I’ll have to destroy.
It’s not the freedom I crave;
Freedom wouldn’t be enough.
Nothing’s ever enough.