Resipiscence

Scribbled in my little travel notebook over spring break.

I can't sleep until I get these damn thoughts out of my head.

I feel like a child who's spent hours of time and effort making a picture for someone, using all her favorite colors and making it as pretty as possible, pouring heart and soul into it, and then gives it it to the person, who kinda looks at it, holds it at arms' length, smiles, a little contemptuous, a little pitying, mostly amused, and hands it back with a "Thanks, but you can keep it."

For all the things I know, as smart and intelligent as I seem to be when it comes to books and information, there seems to be something that everyone else figured out long ago that I just keep missing, and it's the kind of thing that's so obvious no one ever thinks to mention it. Some assumption about... life, love, whatever that for some reason I never made.

I don't have a home. Wherever I go, I always feel out of place. Not at school. Not at my parents' house. Not in my own body. So where it is that I keep trying to run away from?

Or maybe I'm trying to run home.

I don't just want sex, although it would be nice. What I want is someone who will slip her arm around my back and let me slide mine around her waist, as if to say "She is mine and I am hers," someone with a look in her eyes just for me, who doesn't think I'm broken, someone I can trust enough to let my guard down with, lose control with, who won't think it odd if I randomly show up at her doorstep at four in the morning, someone who doesn't expect what I don't have to give.

I wonder why I wasn't enough.

I worry that all I'll ever be to anyone is another piece of ass and I'll even be terrible at that.

I never before realized how shrouded my upbringing was in deceit, polite fiction, tactful avoidance, charming facades, until I saw families being honest around each other and realized that's how it was supposed to be.

It bothers me how much of it I practice without even thinking.

Strange how the most open, honest people I know are actors.

Maybe I hate to act because I'm tired of it.

Am I wearing a mask, a myriad of veils and coverings, without knowing?

I don't know if I really matter to anyone in the end.

I don't know why I should. My friends shine with their own qualities, they radiate their passions and gifts, and I wonder why any of them bother to hang around me. What do I have to offer, anyway?

Maybe in the final count of things I was a burden with occasional redeeming qualities. And I was a sucker for believing otherwise.

NB: I've made my peace with some of these questions/observations already, so don't go thinking I've been skipping my Zoloft or anything and am on the verge of making the Long-Term Solution to the Short-Term Problem.

Labels: depression, love/sex