The Sad Creep

I'm finding I have a very hard time caring about anything. I just want to rest. Emotionally and physically. Tim doesn't think I truly believe this, but I almost know I'd be happier if I could just be alone.

When I'm coming home from my temporary job (which manages to give me some level of accomplishment) and I'm about to shove the key into the front door I finally feel safe. Like I can relax.

I was thinking about it on the train today. How I just wish I could be me and that no one would tell me it's wrong or, worse yet, that whatever their interpretation of me is wrong.

I get it. It's hard to know me. The only person in this world who I can 100% comfortably be myself around or say anything to is Stephen. My absolute closest friends and family see 70-80%. Mostly because, when I open up to my family, they try to discount it, fix it, or tell me what to do to or how to think (with the best intentions). I can't fathom opening up to my regular friends. I don't want them thinking knowing how neurotic, scared, irritable, morbid, and sarcastic I can be. I'm trying to work on that. On letting them see who I am - flaws included. Everyone else sees maybe up to 40%.

I guess it would be easier to understand if you tried living every day forced to be someone you're not while constantly trying to quell this sense of terror and immense tension from invisible origins. Some horrible configuration of your insecurities, your desperate attempts at overcoming them, a deep, natural inclination toward distrust and paranoia, and your utter shame for having these stupid feelings. You mourn what you unwillingly hide. All the good or acceptable things. The pure you.

I'm getting desperate. I've tried everything, but I've just lost the will to try anymore. To hope for anything. To change.

Anyway, I was thinking on the train-ride home...just how deeply sad I am that so many people I didn't choose to allow into my life think they know who I am. I'm "just quiet". And they always get this sense that I think I'm so important, that I only think of myself, or that I'm judgemental. I wish I could've shown them that that isn't me at all. But I am simply incapable of that. I have no hope of ever showing them (or anyone else) 100% who I really am.

Not that they care to know or that it might just be better that they never see me again. Just that I can't ever really be me. Even if I did manage to get my mental illnesses under control, it would be "me" plus medicine. I wouldn't wish this draining burden on anyone. Especially because I do have a lot to give. I have a neat (though heavily-flawed) personality. I'm learning to love my morbidity, my sarcasm, black humor, curiosity, and bluntness. I'm trying to embrace that. I also want to be able to show that I am (overly) sensitive, thoughtful, kind, bold, honest...all the things 5-year-old/undamaged/un-ill me was. These things always get drowned out by my fear and irritability.

Anyway...this was a LOT of I's and a LOT of me's. Ugh. But, to be fair, this is my blog/journal/"vent space". I hope that's understood. I'm not always thinking of myself. In fact, I'm usually thinking of universal concepts of the human condition. And I'd always love to read any of your thoughts - I like learning about people. Everything there is to know, really! It's creepy. And that's me!