When we’re so full of feelings, we crave the numbness, but once we finally feel numb and everything quiets down, we miss the loudness—the heavy tears, the screaming and fighting, laughing so hard your ribs start to hurt, the guilt. Because having feelings mean that I’m still there, human. But once I’m numb, I’m just existing, like an empty shell of what I used to be.
I don’t get to pick what I can ignore, I either feel too full, like an overflowing river, or too empty, like a blank page that’s never been used before. In an ideal world, everyone would want to be happy, right? But sometimes I crave the suffering, because it feels stronger. It lingers in my heart like a scar; it makes me feel alive.
Perhaps I’m unconsciously chasing it—running after women who will only break my heart, making friendships with people who overwhelm me mentally. Because in my mind, to be used is to be loved, and that’s the disgusting mindset I’ve been trying to escape from, but it sticks to my skin like a shadow. Sometimes it feels safe, to know I’m still wanted, even in such sick ways.
I only feel like I belong when I’m helping people, so I’ve numbed myself enough to not get too affected—to help without getting too close. But sometimes it catches up to me. I’ve been chasing strangers’ affection, listening to their deepest secrets. I’d even go as far as taking on their burdens.
But when I sit back and think, it doesn’t bring me any joy. Instead I feel a deep anger, because why am I helping those people with their feelings when I had to fend for myself and sit through countless appointments to feel normal again? While they sit on their asses whining about being so sad and lonely, desperate, useless.
So I listen, and I offer help. But it’s like two sides of me fighting at the same time—one who thinks they deserve kindness, and the other mutters about how pathetic they are and that they should get it together.
The truth is, I want people to need me, to crave me. That way, they will never leave, because who helps them except me? Nobody, right? They are mine—all mine—sweet little creatures to take care of.
So I stay silent, and I bottle up the heavy thoughts, because I am a good friend… right?
I know that other people have it worse. I could've had a mother who's physically abusive. I could've had a mother who didn't provide me with food and clothing. But it still hurts knowing that I will never be good enough for her to love me unconditionally.
