"Am I Really?" The Words We Cut - A Conversation With Myself

“You’re allowed to be alive.” Good gods, the ignorance in her voice. It was still steady.

“You think I don't know that?” I snap back at the statement. Unwilling to look her in the eye.
Her fists curl and she sighs, “It’s hard to know when you don’t show it.”

“I'm here, aren’t I?” My voice was sharp, almost condescending.

“Existing is not the same as living. You deserve to be happy, you know.” What bullshit.

“We both know that's not true.”

“But why isn't it? Why can’t you simply allow yourself to give your heart to someone for the sake of them too cradling it? Opening up can't possibly be so painful to you that you haven't spoken that way to someone in years.” Sounding desperate, her eyes have that familiar look in them. Pity.
“What if it is.” I respond, my voice tearing the otherwise silent air asunder.“What if every time I’ve opened up, I’ve gotten ripped apart. They tell me they’ll listen, they say ‘I’ll hear you if you hear me first’  and the help I provide, I know it's better than anything they could give me. It's too often a response of  ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I don't know how to help’.” Tears are forming and I’m beginning to break again. 

My head in my hands, I continue - only allowing space for my words. “Listen. I understand it may seem cruel to you, cruel that I'm not willing to display my needs and emotional effort, but right now the only person able to understand anything I'm saying is me. So what's the point in talking? Yes, it's not their fault that they don't know how to deal with me, but I'm tired of people trying to. I'm tired of the disappointment each time. I'm tired of people thinking they know everything about me when I, sometimes, don't even know about me. I'm tired of people knowing. I'm tired of people not knowing. I hate the pity, I hate the sympathy, I have grown so exhausted of it all.”

Finally, she was silent.