Being vulnerable isn’t beautiful, it’s terrifying. There’s always this saying that being vulnerable is a beautiful and brave thing to do. But it’s not. I don’t feel brave at all. I feel terrified and anxious and like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs and I can’t remember the last time I could actually breathe. Being vulnerable is everything nobody wants to be, because it means you have to be scared. And anxious. And unable to breathe. Or at least for me, anyway. I’d rather keep my guard up and not feel like my heart is going to fall out of my chest or like my brain is going to explode from the million and one thoughts that are crashing around inside it every two seconds. Being vulnerable can be beautiful, but not in general. It’s beautiful when you’re sat across from someone having a heart to heart at 2am, where the things you say don’t really seem all that real because this feeling will be gone again in the morning, so it’s a safe space. Being vulnerable 24/7 as you open up to someone and let that person into your life isn’t beautiful, it’s scary and makes me feel like I want to run away and hide, which I can’t do because then I wouldn’t be being vulnerable and then it would be a problem. I would be a problem. I am a problem.
Can you solve me? No. I can’t even solve me, so I don’t expect you to, either. And stop asking me what I want. I don’t know. I don’t have the answer to that, either. That’s your job. I don’t know what I want but I expect you to know because that’s what you’re supposed to do, you made it your problem, your job, and when you don’t know that makes me mad, too. It makes me wonder why you don’t know even though when you ask me I couldn’t tell you either. But that’s your job, isn’t it? I don’t want to take responsibility. Of my feelings, or of me. If I don’t take responsibility I can pretend it isn’t there, that it doesn’t exist. Not my problem, and therefore something I don’t need to think about anymore, because I don’t want to. You want to take me on? You want to make me your problem? Then fine, but I won’t help you. And then I’ll get mad when you complain about that too, because this is what you said you wanted and don’t act like I didn’t warn you. You just didn’t want to listen, or maybe you didn’t take me seriously because you thought it was too weird of a thing to say. Either way, it’s still your fault because I knew this was coming and you still chose to do it anyway. You chose to do this with me. I’ll be here but I won’t be here. I’ll exist next to you and when you find me difficult well, that’s for you to deal with. I refuse to because I don’t want to deal with it, with myself. If I don’t deal with myself then I don’t exist. I don’t have to do anything or be anything. I’m just here. I feel like that’s all I ever say to anyone. I’m just here.
No promises or purpose, I’m just here.
Do with that what you will. I don’t want it to be my problem anymore.
– things i would say if i wasn’t a 23 year old that knew better