Mistakes

Have you ever felt like you were screaming into a dark abyss, your cries of pain and isolation muffled by the thick, black air that surrounds you called your mistakes? Like your dreams speak to you, and tell you everything that you already know, but try not to reflect on a daily basis? I hide behind my faults and flaws, while sticking my proud yet injured chest out, like a damaged peacock. Attempting to divert attention from the reality that is my life by unsuccessfully flaunting the once bright, but now fading colors of my plucked feathers some once tried to attach back to my broken skin. I am an oxymoron. A paradox. A simple enigma neatly placed in a old, cracked glass box. This damage is not new to me. I’ve been living with secrets (or what once used to be secrets) inside of me for a very long time. For as long as I can imagine, actually. But I smile, trying to contain the anger, the hurt, the mystery. I laugh at my own expense. Hell, most of the time I make the jokes, knowing damn well it hurts to laugh and be laughed at. My selection of friends or the people I have surrounded myself with for the majority of my life has some what distorted my reality, or perhaps it was me that had the distorted reality all along. I felt like some people actually cared, when all in all, they were looking for their own personal gain, I felt like some people could be trusted, when in turn, they waited for the opportunity to share my inane thoughts with the world. I thought some wanted to help, but lo and behold, they were secretly helping themselves. Don’t get me wrong, there have been some amazing people that have come in and out of my life, although the happiness never lasts. They eventually get frustrated with me being stuck and set in my ways, stubborn and never listening to experience, their own life choices or someone’s close to them. And in the end, I end up pushing them away, casting good will and kindness aside. Lord only knows why I do this, because I definitely do not. One theory that was presented to me was that all I have been used to is rejection. To asking, or attempting to gain something, ANYTHING! And then getting shot down. So when good actually happens, my psychosis in turn rejects it and tries to find some malicious idea, plot, or ploy lurking around the edges. I have been taught that nothing in life is free, not even advice. So why do these people GENUINELY want to help me? Me? Lowly old Angie, Fuck-Up Angie, Child of Many Misjudgments. This question has been answered once or twice, usually with the “I’ve been where you are, and I don’t want you to end up like me..” or the “I’ve seen many friends travel the path you are traveling, I don’t want you to go down that same road..” oh PLEASE. Obviously they nor YOU could be saved, so what makes you think that I could or would be any different? I am not stronger than the next man, in fact, I’m pretty weak. I give up at the first sign of distress sometimes. Some would say that this thought process needs to be changed. But I simply do not know how. I don’t know how to ask for help, I don’t know how to accept it. All I know is how to wallow and pity my sad, little life. And at times I am content with that. Most times I am aching for something more, like I may be destined to greatness. But the pitiful side of me quickly removes those thoughts, like taking candy away from a child who hasn’t eaten dinner yet. Maybe my misery stems from all of my past mistakes. Maybe I feel that I have made the same fuck up too many times to change it, to change the outcome. Maybe I feel like it’s too late sometimes. Well, not maybe. Its what I actually feel. I don’t like giving up. I don’t like feeling like a failure, but it’s all I know. I hate looking in my mother’s eyes and seeing that she wanted so much more for her little girl, and I hate feeling at this prime age, that I will never be able to give it to her. How for once I would love to see her smile, to hear her finally say “Baby, I am PROUD of you.” To hear anyone say those simple words. Maybe everyone around me has given up on me because I have given up on myself. The enigma placed neatly in a old, cracked box. The paradox. The oxymoron. Maybe I’m not as complex as I thought I was…

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