And you think I abandoned you.
I have suicidal thoughts. A lot. I am self conscious and paranoid, and sometimes I think I’m going crazy. I should be happy. I’m interviewing at schools to further my education. I’m engaged. But I’m not happy. Sometimes I’m not sure my dreams are my own. It’s like I was shoved into this box when I was a kid, because I wasn’t good enough for the pursuits my dad found valuable. And somewhere in that box of things that my dad didn’t understand or have time for I found education. My safe haven. I spent my life cuddled against it for comfort as I hid in that box. I forgot there is world. There is only the box. Only the books and the “goals” and the things that other people whispered to me in my box. I fit there. I’m good at it. I could do something more. It is my way out. But I’m still in the box. My “dreams” are still in the box, and I forgot to question if this was what I really wanted, because it’s all I could see. Now that I am questioning, it seems to late to see what lays beyond the darkness and the packaging tape. I’m trapped. This can’t be my life. This is it? Really? I have to spend my time wondering if I made the right choice and knowing all the while that I can never answer that question, because I can never get out of my box. I cry. A lot. I mourn the life I never had and can’t have now. I can’t have fun, and you don’t care. You gave up on me. You think I’m ridiculous because I’m so accustomed to the dark that the light blinds me. Peeking at the world through the clear tape and knowing I can never touch it - why can’t you understand? I don’t fit in where you want me to, and I can’t actually leave my prison. The thoughts are always there, haunting me. You’re too fat. You’re too pale. You’re too weird. You’re too paranoid. You’re too ugly. You’re too ridiculous. And to hear the words fall from your lips…to hear you say it. You think it too. You used to work at the tape, peeling it away, helping me out. I could see you. And you could see me. But now, you’ve given up. You’ve decided that I will never leave my box. And instead of the clear packaging tape that allowed me to see through it, to see you, you reseal my box with duct tape - in typical southern fashion…doesn’t it fix everything? Wouldn’t life be easier for you if you could pretend I’m not here? If I never existed? So you close my box. You block the world and yourself from me, ensuring that you never have to deal with me either. You can ignore me, because it’s not like I was ever really there anyway. I was always here. I was always trapped. I will always be trapped. I will always be here in my box, in the darkness, without any idea what it feels like to love the light. I’m not happy, and you’ve gone. And since you said the words, they just keep ringing in my ears. I am ridiculous, and therefore I am worthless. I am nothing.