It's like climbing up a giant mountain of emotions, when you're just so small, so small, the size of an ant while the mountain is the size of a planet. And each grip you take you feel a wild sense of emotions and you just keep climbing, never giving up, carrying a pack so heavy you'll feel like you're going to fall and die and rip to pieces but you stay strong, you never let go. The mountain is steady and the handholds don't tear at your fingers, and it's all stone and nothing comes off, you don't have to worry about that. But you feel like it's so tall. Because you've climbed miles and miles straight up and you're not even a quarter of the way to the top yet. So you just find the nearest ledge and crawl inside and cry.
Because you're too small and too weak to make it, but then the heaviness on your pack reminds you of all the people that need you, and you go back and your grip is stronger and you keep trying, even though it might kill you.
But if you just give up that's even worse, because exiting from the long-drawn out metaphor that's when you commit suicide. And your pack just hangs there, dangling like some reminder of your attempts as people cry and mourn.
But then if you fall, outwardly, you've just broken inside. You're a shell. You're empty. You're so shattered that this time there's no repair. Sure, you've slipped before. Broken a little. But always repairable damage - stuff that lets you go on.
And your fingers hurt and you realize that you're just switching through how it's going, but it's inspiration and you've just come from a nice warm shower and you feel like you need this to breathe. I guess that's writing, the only way to breathe is to do it, but this is a little strange because normally it's poetry because you don't want to add to anyone's burdens.
And oh, you feel all the time. You feel all the emotions all the time. The happiness is a facade but then again it's real, you're always happy. And when you cry the tears are true but they're fake, too. And it's like your anxiety and depression and something else you don't dare tell anyone else of - not like you have the words to fully describe that other - all roll together trying to crush you so you fight back and yell.
But they get to you, anyway, and it starts with a little iddy bitty corner that never goes away, and then it grows and grows and you still hold it all inside, because you have to be strong, but then it breaks out in little things, whether tears or anger or the fact you feel like you're so anxious you're about to pass out. And it's all flowing and running and insane and you don't know what to do but you keep climbing because you're needed and you won't let the people you love done.
Because it's the happiness and sadness and anger and joy and sense of peace and fear and horror and I'm constantly feeling it. And maybe there's that little bit of hate there too, but you don't know what it's at or for because you've chipped away at the hate for yourself and the hate for your Daddy and the hate of the girl that bullied you all through elementary school. But maybe it's for the world, because the world is cold and cruel and hateful and sometimes you just gotta turn your back on it and cry, because you can't bear to be judged or to let people down.
And you're always confident, the strong one, the peacemaker, and you let other people lean on you and they do, because you're warm and understanding and know just what to say and people "wish there were more people like you" because you'll never give up on them even if it seems like it sometimes. And you laugh and shrug off all the insults and criticisms because they don't matter, you know who you are and you love yourself, but secretly they fester and burn while you forgive the person who said them to you until it gets to be too much where you want to cry because the people who say these things the most are two of your friends and they just don't stop; you guess they don't know how to because one of them is a year younger than you and the other one has Asperger's.
And you're terrified they'll read this and also hoping they will, because you can't say it to their faces but you're not about to say it behind their backs - not in a nasty way, anyways - because they care about you and when it comes down to it they're there for you. And you wonder if you're doing this right.
And you try to talk to your therapist because she's just the sweetest lady and you wonder if you should give her your blog so she can read this. But you don't know what to do because there's sometimes not words for what you need to see and other times you feel so guilty, because she's a mother with her own children tending for their own pain. And you keep it to yourself that you'd cry if you had to stop seeing her because in your heart you call her 'friend', but anyway you do that with everyone and let them go because you don't want to get in trouble, or hurt anyone else in anyway.
And you pride yourself on your relationship with your mother and love to boast about it no matter how much she annoys you but you realize she can never understand everything. You realize this because you've tried to tell her and you realize she's a mother and mothers just don't understand everything, even though they're wiser and older and were where you were, too, but it's something about motherhood that makes them unable to understand everything but that's okay because you love them and at least you can hug your mom whenever you're upset and it doesn't matter because you can't stay angry at her unless she keeps joking when you're in a mood, then that's just frustrating.
And really the only person who understands what you're going through is Jesus Christ, and you feel horrible guilt because he's felt exactly what you have, and so you pray to God that your Savior doesn't have to feel your pain even if it gives up you being able to live with Them again, but you can't stand to think that you, right now, have and are adding to His pain and it's kind of killing you inside.
And anyway if your prayers didn't do anything other than give you a mild sense of comfort for just a couple of minutes your Savior isn't on Earth and he can't hug you with the solidness of a mother, or listen while you look each other in the eyes. And you need that Earthly thing.
And all you want is someone you can tell everything to but you don't have that person because life is like a marriage, and sometimes you have to compromise and give and give until you're hurting because you're carrying everyone else's burdens, but you won't dare give up your own. And you think how funny it is, how selfishly you want someone to share your burdens for just a few moments but how selflessly you refuse to share your burdens.
And you make such deep connections with people, I mean you have emotional attachments to pixels, for Pete's sake, and you can't help that. Which is why you keep it tucked inside and don't show anyone but yourself the pain when someone leaves or when you have to push someone away. And you have to push someone away.
You just want to improve the whole world but you can't, so you just write because you feel it all so powerfully. And each little facet of your personality you give a name and a face and a voice and then you modify it until it becomes someone different, someone you hold within you, but then you give them life because you write about them and they exist outside of you, forever. But they're also inside of you, tucked close to your heart and they support you even if you argue with yourself.
And you're scared about what this means and you quietly realize that everyone in the world has multiple personality disorder, really, because someone acts one way and then another as the situation changes, and that sometimes they lose grip so the "real" MPD is really just schizophrenia but anyway you don't want to sound like you know everything because you know you know practically nothing and you're just guessing and feeling and hoping.
And you tuck inside yourself a fact you know and can never share, and you've lived your life for so long in the way you've lived it that you realize you've hidden it so well that the only issues they declare you have are anxiety and depression, but you know you have much more. You just fight it back with growling and hissing and pass off when it comes as imagination, because oh, you are imaginative.
And you know people are going to read this and realize what you're talking about but you're going to press the send button before you lose your nerve, because you want people to know just for once.
And you laugh at how silly you are because you wrote this whole thing in second person, and you wonder why you can't do it in first person, and then you cry.