I probably care too much.

Currently, I am home alone with my roommate and I have just been crying silently in my room for the past forty or so minutes, in between texting my mom. I would like to just leave but I have no cigarettes and how do I drive with no cigarettes. And what kind of reasoning even is that. 

I opened up a notebook to do some writing, like I’ve been wanting/not wanting to do for weeks now, and a small piece of paper fell out. It’s a receipt from one of the beach arcades in Delaware, when I thought I was in love or whatever. All I want to know is how it even got in there. I didn’t even buy this notebook until months after we came back, when I already knew I was done. 

The first couple of years after I turned seventeen are kind of a blur for me. Especially that first year. The events, for the most part, are clear to me but everything else is a haze. I was only going through the motions, really, and even then it felt more like my mother was dragging me, pushing me through them. Back then, I was absolutely convinced that despite the fact that I kept waking up every morning, that I was dead. (Part of me still feels that this is true.)

Anyways, what I remember most clearly about this time is that Everything Was My Fault. I’m not entirely sure when I adapted this mantra, but I wholeheartedly believed it was I seventeen, and when I was eighteen, and when I was nineteen, and for quite a while after that. Multiple therapists had to basically tell me over and over again that, no, it was not my fault my dad was dead. He was sick, I knew this, I really did, but when you are seventeen and you are home by yourself taking care of your dad who has cancer, who has just had surgery, and he stops breathing and your mom comes home and your whole world all of a sudden goes black and all you remember hearing are the sirens from the ambulance before you run from your own house, well, it’s hard to tell yourself it’s not your fault. 

But I did, eventually. Except, even after I decided that his death wasn’t my fault, other things still were. If my mother was sad - my fault. If my sister was angry - my fault. Any kind of argument with anyone - just say sorry already, it’s clearly your fault. 

So, yeah, it  took a very long time for me to be able to clearly see what things were actually my fault and what wasn’t. So it still ends up hurting, almost devastating me, when I feel like I’m being wrongly faulted for something. I have to try so hard to just not break down and just accept it. Sometimes I still do. 

I’ve started this over so many times now, trying to get the words right. It won’t work. 

It’s hard for me to gauge exactly where I stand with people. Maybe that’s why I generally only keep a few close friendships. It’s easier that way. Really, the only friendship that I never ever have to question is with my best friend, who I have known for seventeen years, who I know for a fact cares about me just as much as I care about her. 

But it’s hard when I feel like someone is so important to me and I’m not sure if they care. Whether or not I’m important to them too. Usually, I try to just brush it off as an anxiety thing but sometimes it eats away at me and I’m left feeling raw and vulnerable and I hate it. I end up with that stupid sinking feeling, like there is lead in the pit of my stomach. And then I start to worry that maybe I’m being selfish in being concerned about whether or not I matter to someone. But, really, what’s wrong with that? There shouldn’t really be anything wrong with just wanting some kind of affirmation that yes, you are important to them just as they are important to you. Except it’s so hard for me to really tell unless it’s made explicitly clear. So, most of the time, I’m left just feeling kind of foolish and exposed. 

I have had two bottles of champagne so I should really just sleep now.

But we also made coffee at midnight so I’m wide awake.

And all I really, really wanna do is just write and write and write. But that will probably lead to writing about things I may not want to write about. But then again I’ve also had two bottles of champagne, so.

Also, I want a fucking cigarette. 

If anyone ever hurts you or makes you feel like shit and then somehow guilts you into apologizing to them because you expressing your genuine hurt (caused by their own fucking actions) made them feel bad then they are a fucking bad person and fuck them. 

Being sick and sad is possibly the worst combination because it gives you far too much time to wallow in said sadness.

On the other hand maybe it’s a good thing because it helps you realize what a huge fucker he was anyway. So there’s that. 

I’ve been avoiding writing about this because I know I can’t write about it well. I can’t write about it from a distance, where my words are pretty and eloquent and each sentence seems to flow into the next with ease. I just fucking can’t. So I’m just going to write whatever the fuck I want. Fuck any sense of context. Fuck any kind of logical story flow. Fuck pretty words.

I feel like the whole thing was bullshit. Complete, utter bullshit. Honestly, as far as I am concerned, what it comes down to is that you said you were there for me, regardless of what happened, and then you bailed. I mean, there’s really no other way to put it. I was incredibly depressed and you just bailed. I was trying not to be, I really was, because you said that I had to try to. So I did. Even though the entire idea of “trying not to be depressed” when I’m using all of my energy to just fucking get through a day is kind of bullshit but I did it anyway. And that was part of the problem to begin with those last couple of months. I was super depressed and didn’t really want to be around anyone, ever. I had to force myself. And, for some reason, you had the audacity to tell me that I “should have told you sooner”. What the fuck. What do you call me crying and talking for weeks about how I just want to kill myself? What the fuck is that if not telling you that I am very much so depressed. I don’t know how much clearer you wanted me to spell it out. “I’m depressed”. “I want to cut myself all the time now.” “I wish I could kill myself”. Please, tell me how I could have been more clear. But, you said it would be okay and that we would get through this and that you would be there for me. And I believed you. And then you bailed. And now all of it just seems like a ton of bullshit.