Talk about how you feel, talk about how you feel, oh fuck off. I don’t want to talk about how I feel anymore. Most people wait on to listen to some massive, life-spanning, overarching narrative—a heartbreak, a disease, an I-don’t-care-what.
You see, I could handle the big stuff, the events that unfolded in years, I had my grip on that all too clearly. I was too smart to not throw my life away and so, things usually worked out.
It was in the little things—the everyday stuff, the difficult conversations, the tedious people, the aggravating inconveniences; they fazed me, continually. I’d bear with most of them for the day, but towards the end, they’d be the ones spinning in my head, as it spun because of one pint too many.
I was heartbroken for years, I could handle another month. I had been clueless for decades, I could handle another year. It was the argument with a friend or something a stranger said or something I saw on the street that broke me usually, and that was too casual for you.
I don’t want to talk about how I feel. I want to call a friend and not say a word. I wonder how many will allow that before they call me insane?
So, spare me the bullshit. You don’t want to hear about how I feel. You want to listen to a story. You like hearing stories so you could use the platitude you read on a blog recently. Then, take the fact that you made someone feel heard today and put it on a plaque as you go to sleep, believing you’re a good person.
You really don’t want to hear anyone. You just want to be amused, and you want to feel useful, and for that, you can find someone else.
If you can sit in silence with me for a while, without you wanting me to put words to how I feel, maybe then, I’ll sit with you, and maybe just then, once we’re both done feeling how I feel, I’d tell you what bothers me. You won’t do that, though. No one would.
All everyone ever wanted were fucking stories and words, and all everyone ever wanted was to doze off believing they were heroes. I wasn’t going to give them that. I could save myself.
I told you, I could handle the big stuff, the long-drawn journeys. I had saved myself on countless days before—one more wouldn’t kill me.