More about life, love, the pursuit of happiness, and the girl behind the blog.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Too Much

I feel like I need to apologise to the world.

I'm too much, yet somehow not enough.

Too crazy.
Too loud.
Too opinionated.
Too needy.
Too annoying.
Too impulsive.
Too unbalanced.
Too moody.
Too flawed.
Too manic.
Too depressive.
Too, too much.

Yet, not enough.
I mess up too much.
I'm not good enough.
I'm not worthy enough.
I'm always causing some issue.
I'm always getting yelled at.
I am broken, and unfixable.
I've been through too much.
I'm not whole.
I'm not enough.

I talk too fast.
I'm completely unreachable.
I'm dissociative.
I get too excited.
I freak out.
I speak before thinking,
act without thinking.
I don't consider options.
I get something in my head,
then completely ignore
the dangers that are involved.
I must do it now.
I must have it now.
I make stupid mistakes.
I'm brilliant,
but unmotivated.
A perpetual underachiever.
I'm just... me.

I feel the need to apologise.
Apologize for being me.
For being this person that is just
too, too much, but not enough.
For being all these things.
For doing all these things.
For making people want to step away.
For being completely intolerable.
For not being able to hold onto something good
before I lose it.
And I do lose it, because of me.
It's me.
It's me, it's me, it's me.

No one sticks around for long. Save Julie, who is a God send and an angel. I eventually push people away. Too much to deal with, they will say to me. You don't make sense, they will say. You are too much (of this), they say. Not enough (of this.)

How do I change this?
I take medicine.
I am religious with it.
But there's only so much medication can do.
I do therapy.
I try.
I try so damn hard to be normal.
To smile.
To hide this ugly part of myself.
Eventually they find out.
Who is "they," you ask.
"They," is anyone.
Everyone who spends more than
a few hours with me.
I try to hide myself.
I try to hide behind the walls I build.
The stone fortress that protects my mind,
and my heart.
But, I let people in.
People who I love.
People who I want so desperately to love me back.
Then they enter,
then they find out who I am.
Who I really am,
and they leave.
Too much.
Too much.
Too much.
They can't handle me.
Too much, they say.

Some are nicer than others.
They step back, and pretend that
they don't notice the craziness
that is my mind.
They don't exactly leave, per say.
More just step back.

There's always distance.
Do I create the distance,
or do they?

There is always a distance
between me
and others.
A thin piece of glass that holds me
just far enough away that I cannot touch them.
That they don't have to touch me.
They can leave.
But my side of the glass is a box.
And I am stuck.
Always alone.
With myself.
Singing with my iPod in one ear.
Trying so hard to pretend that it doesn't hurt.
That this doesn't fucking hurt.
That I am alone, and no one wants to stay.
No one wants to be close enough to hold me.
For me to hold them.

I am good.
I am a good person.
I love harder than anyone I know.
Perhaps because it is always so one-sided.
I love fiercely.
I try to show people how much I love them,
how fiercely,
how deeply I love them,
in hopes that they will return it.
In hopes that someone,
will say,
You're enough.
You're not too much.

You're not too little.
You are wonderful,
and beautiful,
and I love you.
I love you just the way you are.

That's a lost hope.
I am flawed beyond measure.
Broken, as I said.
I hurt others unintentionally.
I hurt myself.

I say,
fuck the world!
I don't care!
Here I am.
Take me or leave me!

I don't care!


I care.
I care too much.
I break every time
someone looks the other way.
they say.

I try so hard.
But, there is nothing.
Nothing I can do.
I can't make people love me.
And it hurts.
It hurts.
And I can't fix it.

Where does the illness end, and where do I begin.
I have this fear, this terrible fear, that this is me.
That this is how I came.
That this is how I'm made.
That there is something
inherently wrong with me.
Wrong with my soul.
My brain.
Medication only does so much.
My mania is less manic.
My depression is less, well, depressing.
But still.
It's too much.

I know it.
I'm too much.
I get it.
I'm not enough.
I don't need you to tell me.
I know.