I wear my heart like a wet, red stain on the breast of a velvet gown..........
this describes me completely. It is a quote from my favorite poem A Well Worn Story by Dorothy Parker. It might as well be my mantra, my call sign, my epitaph.
I bruise too easily. I am too sensitive, too open, too accepting, too forgiving, too kind. I give and give and give till I have nothing left but the air in my mouth and lint in my pockets. I bruise. I break. I falter. I fall down.
I end up with nothing left. Nothing left of my strength. Nothing left of my will power. Nothing left of my soul except the gaping whole were it should be. I have allowed myself to be hurt again.
I accept people too freely. I always jump head first into friendships. I go with the emotions I feel. If they say this is your friend then I do not question. I always try to see things from their point of view. I always try to be conscious of their feelings and wants. I try to a be supportive of their needs. I may not always totally understand them but I spend almost every breath trying. Because I feel that is what friends do. Maybe I am wrong. I am no longer sure.
Sometimes I wish I were a self obsessed jerk. A narcissistic tool that cared nothing about other's feelings. How nice would it be to not worry about if what I have done hurts others? How nice would it be to finally not feel so deeply for those that don't give two turtle turds what I am going through? How nice would it be to so wrapped up in myself to not drop everything for someone who would not, could not, or chooses not to do the same for me? How nice would it be not to be the puppet whose strings are being pulled every which way just to see if I can dance? How nice would it be to not feel the disappointment and sting of being manipulated, lied to, and used yet again?
What has it gotten me? To be nice, sweet, and open? What the hell good is it? Really, I would like to know. What is the point of it all when it only gets me pain and despair? When time and time again my blind trust is burned to the ground like some kind of sacrificial viking ship. Set it out to sea and set it a lite. What do I achieve by being this way except to become a beacon that draws the users and manipulators like some deranged bug zapper. "Please be my friend just make sure that you stab me directly in the heart when you get a chance. The heart or the back, either or, just make sure the knife is sharp and you smile while you do it."
What fresh hell is this? What is the point? My urge to help others, to love others, to accept others is more of a noose rather than something to admire. It slowly closes in threatening to cut off my airway and yet that deepens the pull. All that has to be said is that I hurt someone and the guilt washes over me like salt water stinging and burning the cracks in my skin. Pointing out battle scars I didn't even realize I had. I am so exhausted of it all.
The worst part is I can not change this about myself. I have tried. It's my personality. A personality that is more flawed than good. My heart has been shattered like glass so often I am afraid I might run out of glue. My self esteem has abandoned me. My nerves are left feeling raw and my tongue is scorched. I feel tethered to the ground unable to shed this sadistic cycle of guilt and agony. It is like a disease if you will. An incurable disease to care for others too much and I so wish there was some magic potion to make it all go away. I don't want to care anymore.
To have to read or listen to where I went wrong or what I have done that wasn't good enough is tiring. I can not be everyone's everything. I can't even be myself half of the time. I can recite my flaws. I guess I couldn't give enough. I couldn't continue to be emotionally torn. I guess I am quitter. A bad soul. Not Christian enough. Because I turned away I suppose putting myself first finally has made me a horrid excuse of a person. I guess that is what I have become.
My biggest problem is I allow others to hurt me. I wear my heart like a wet red stain on the breast of a velvet gown instead of locking it up in a titanium safe, under the subway transit, buried beneath large boulders, and encased in cement. I seriously wish I could. Then maybe I could not have to hurt so very much. I would no longer have to be vulnerable. Vulnerable sucks.
Here's your sharpened blade back....I don't need it anymore....I have enough knife wholes in my back already.