Sometimes I am tempted to write poetically, but most times I think it’s best to say it raw… because there’s nothing poetic about the way I feel recently. It’s been pure anger and sadness. I still smile, make friends, cover it up, hide it, whatever you want to call it, but inside I am boiling. I am furious. I feel this way at myself. I realise that I am dealing with some serious blame. Why am I blaming myself so much for the decisions I’ve made? Naturally because I made them, but why am I being so hard on myself? I feel myself causing myself to be unhappy. I hear myself telling me things that make me cry, yet I don’t stop. Why do I think I deserve this punishment? We all make poor decisions that we are not proud of, or that leave us in situations that are hardly desirable, but this is something that you let go of.
Learn from the bad decisions. Don’t let them cripple you. Do you know how hard that is? There is nothing easy about taking the high road. There’s nothing simple about being strong. It’s a job. It’s a tough job. It’s a lonely job.
I’m angry at myself because I’m being tough on myself. I’m being very harsh towards myself and my feelings. I think that I shouldn’t feel the way I do, and that in turn frustrates me and makes me even angrier. There’s nothing joyful about frustration. It’s chaotic. Not the kind of chaos that you can find solace in.
There’s also this new idea that I have about why I feel this way. Something happened in my life that caused it to change direction; something that was forced on to me. Something that I did not ask for, want, or would benefit me. Something that made me hurt, made me sad, made me feel ashamed of myself. I can’t bring myself to do the same to someone else… and that is immensely painful.. But, I’m not sure which is more painful… me doing it or not doing it?
I have all this supposed power yet I don’t use it? Why? Am I a coward? Am I weak? Or is it the opposite? Would it benefit the person? Would it benefit me? Which is healthier?
I’m so tired.
The rush of a thousand pores as they stand on edge gave way to anxiety that I can’t help but let out and hopefully let go. I sit here and wonder… was it me who placed this power in their childish hands? Not the child who was taught gentleness as he stroked a mother bird that protected her eggs, but the child who was left to manage his own balloon…. float until he crashed into adulthood. I am responsible. If I ever bring myself to utter words to this child again, it would be my own. This disappointment is unexplainable but not unfathomable. Even Jesus had to give his life to make a point, so why should I sob and ask for mercy? The dullness of my sacrifice makes the pain even more piercing but there’s no blood spilled to be slipped on, just a broken body to jump over or kick to the side. A journey.
Hahah so true >_
Especially when the smart student gets it wrong