I used to be so thankful that I’m a strong person. I take comfort in knowing I’m dependable, and it brings me overwhelming joy to be the person my loved ones come to in times of distress. I find peace in bringing sorrow to an end. Just knowing I’m the first person they want to talk to, makes me feel so useful that it’s surreal. This way of thinking is actually what made me realize something so important; I’m the weakest person I know.
It’s all fine when it comes to other people. A brave face is as easily painted on as make-up, and helpful words are always available. The advice I give comes so easy to me, like all their problems crystal clear, and there’s always a solution for them. But the cold sad reality is that when it comes to myself, I’m useless. I focus all my time and all my energy worrying about other people’s problems just to avoid thinking about mine. Whatever it is that I have going on, it’s always too much for me to handle.
“So why not ask other people for help?”
But what if my problem is that I can’t sit in silence because I can’t handle being with my thoughts alone? Or that I can’t bring myself to wake up early because I can’t stand any extra time with myself? Maybe it’s that I can’t fall asleep without background noise because I don’t trust my mind not to wander? What if my problem is that I’m aware of the fact that everyone has the ability to walk away, and leave whenever they want? What if the thing that I’m most afraid of, is that when they’re all gone, all I’ll be left with is me? Why would I ever bother someone else with all of that? How can I expect anyone to understand, when I myself barely do?
There is no real reason, there is no real problem. I just can’t stand knowing that when the smoke clears and the dust settles, all I really have left is me.