Maybe it’s not that I like, or feel comfortable, talking about myself, but that I have a need to be heard – because I never am. Because, for some reason, my words are always cast off, never heeded or considered worthy enough to pay attention to. Maybe I am inappropriately taking advantage of opportunities to share stories about myself, trying to use that as some form of therapy, because I can’t appropriately express these things to whom they do concern (translate – because I’m unreasonably scared out of my mind to even bring these things up) and because it’s too much trouble to actually seek therapy (and maybe I want to be strong and slowly take care of things by myself even though I’ve wanted actual therapy for years).
I know. I know I shouldn’t go around talking about stuff. I know I should talk to the people who are making me crazy in the first place. From experience, I know that talking about problems with third parties don’t make them go away and whatever relief they provide is extremely temporary. I should stop being a coward and speak my mind and let people know when they do things that bother me or seriously stress me out or genuinely make me upset, even if those people happen to be family members that I live with, even if those people were involved with my conception, even if those people pay the bills for the home that I live in.
I’m doing it again.