Coffee date CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP i wanted something so badly for my best friend that i convinced myself that it was real--which wouldn't be so bad if i hadn't convinced HER of it as well. i convinced her that her love was requited. and i swear i thought it was real. i still think it can be. SHIT. now i've just had my first real "heart to heart" with this guy (which is objectionable enough-- "thou shalt hate your friend's man") and he's confessing his guilt about dating someone. ok as an unbiased observer i'm obligated to help him through his trust issues (he was so kind to me)and if there is a possibility of him opening his heart again-- i should encourage it. as a loyal friend i have to keep him away from whoever he's seeing. and what's worse--i have to tell nonie (my friend). do i? what happens if i just...shut my trap and pretend it didnt happen is there anyway for her to find out? to tell her would just cause unnecessary anguish... or is it prolonging the inevitable? shit. i should've never talked to him. i knew it. i knew i shouldnt have. what kind of person am i that by simply communicating --merely inciting conversation--i could cause such havoc. i could break her heart right now. or allow it to break later. why is this in my hands? i should never talk to anyone.
i should be fighting zion or hypocritical fundamentalist bastards or at least my parents
we're hypersensitive--us BPD people--to non-verbal communication. capable of feeling unusual degrees of empathy.
i can't have an opinion when i understand all of them.
i dont know what to do. which is shocking considering i never know what to do. she's mad at me for ditching her. because i was talking to this child that said he loved me and i was talking to this stranger who wanted to fix me they aren't important. she's important. and she's jealous-- it's so bizarre to me that she could feel that sometimes i joke that she's cursed she actually puts up with me--and likes it too i dont know if anyone could be more damned disaster all of this an entire year of assuring her that she was the one disaster. and you know what...i can't even say i didnt see it coming i'll just disappear-- and that way she'll be so wracked with worry about me she wont notice... she wont notice he's not noticing her UGH. love's such a bitch i wonder where that guy that i allowed to dump me is i left him, i told him i didnt want to know him and he exploded into about a million pieces then i ruined it all said i was mistaken and an eye for an eye later we both see a little less clearly when i was younger the "better place" to run away to was always an airline ticket away. i hear it everyday gotta get out, gotta go back, i cant stand "this" anymore but i got out-- i left my little riyadh bubble and i saw the other side-- the grass was the same dying yellow then i went back to my bubble-- but you can't go back, all you see are empty shells that will never be what you remembered-- just mocking lifeless pictures of people and places that are dead. as for "this" you cant leave "this" you put up or shut up you either have it in you to exit or you dont i got close --either i'm too afraid or i like it here but don't understand why yet i think i'm too afraid i think it's the time duration that bothers me usually i'm impulsive and quick enough to ignore what i think or feel ending yourself is never quick. even a millisecond is a lifetime of thoughts. i'm tired. it all goes back to how tired i am. i'm just a kid with white hairs. a pitiful abbhoration. aristotle's poetics. pity and fear --that's what draws in an audience the two disjointed feelings simultaneously you dont know if you're superior or inferior you need resolution, balance, stability-- you need catharsis and you think i can give it to you but i'm not a story i'm not a plot line i'm not your saviour or distraction i'm just another fucked up kid and that'll always be glamorous i know this is dramatic. i'm not stupid. i know this is a tiny little social fleck of a problem that people don't think twice about. i make it so dramatic so i can write about it. why do i write about it? kundera-- i write about my experiences so they no longer master me--with my words, i master them i can't live in reality "Reality does not discuss. Reality simply is" It's 2. In a while I'm going to have to meet her. I can't. This entire week all I feel is this intense urge to throw up butterflies.
This is wrong. |