I wrote this last year on June 22, 2010. Apparently I was dealing with some of the same issues that I have struggled with recently. I do notice that my way of dealing with people has changed since that time.
I am very, very tired. I feel like the last five years of my life have been a bust, filled with fake people and fake connections coming in and out. I get tired of having to be the perky, peppy, positive person who is not allowed to have a bad day, or hard times, or to lose her job.
I love people.
I resent people.
I hate people.
But I love them more than anything. I go out of my way and try and strive to do my best for people; it’s my fault for having a bleeding heart, I think. But I can’t help it. I can’t stand to see people sad or suffering. I get tired, though, when I can’t expect reciprocity, for people to show back to me the same love and kindness I show them. The same concern.
So it rips me apart that when I have my hard times, when I need people the most, no one is there for me. There’s a lot of people who consider themselves my friends when they want to capitalize off my charisma and my intelligence, but when I need their help – when I need them to give an iota of what they take – they vanish.
God this is really hard to write. But this sort of pain is harder to keep in, I think.
I cry when I’m angry. I cry when I’m sad or happy too, but when I’m angry, I cry. I just get tired of giving to the point where I can’t give anymore, and when I ask someone for a cup of sugar I get a flippant side eye or a random excuse for why they can’t help me. Sometimes people even shut me out completely.
Because in the end, everything is about them.
Almost everything is about other people for me. Do I get something out of my exchanges with people? Yes. But I get to see them flourish and excel… And then I get to see those very same people forget me.
I’m a medium. There’s the canvas, the paint, the finished picture… I’m the medium that goes with the paint, that makes things go more fluidly, but when people get asked about that successful painting, they don’t mention me.
I hate this feeling. I feel like, if I was more bitchy or catty or more tragic or less of who I am that people would give a shit. Throw money at me. Throw cars at me. Fall on my feet trying to help me.
I don’t want that.
I don’t want to not be me.
But goddammit, I don’t want this pain either.