I’m Sorry Because I Know

I’m Sorry Because I Know

I’m a worrier. I spread myself thin a lot of the times. I try to do more than I should. I take larger bites than I can handle.

I get stressed and say it’s part of life. I get overwhelmed and believe it’s it’ll pass on by. I get hopeless and tell myself it’s just a phase.

I feel like I have to be there for every friend I have because I know what it’s like to have no one. I feel like I have to take care of everything I possibly can because I remember what it felt like when I was struggling with no one around to help. i feel like I always have to put my best foot forward for someone, anyone, because I remember how it felt when someone did that for me.

That’s me.

I help everyone I can. I am there for everyone I can. Even if it means spreading myself thin, or getting overwhelmed by how much I try to do, I believe trying can sometimes be enough. I do the little things that let people know someone’s there for them. I reach out to those who I need a helping head to let them know someone cares and worries for them. I give out the small gestures that I can to let people know that they aren’t alone. Because, guess what, I remember what it felt like when no one did that for me…and I remember when someone did do even the smallest thing to brighten my day. They’re two different worlds apart.

I remember what it felt like to want someone, just one person, to genuinely reach out to me to help. I remember what it felt like to be hopeless and feel so bitterly alone in this world. I remember struggling but being afraid to ask for help. I remember thinking no one really cared or worried about me. I remember that, all of that, and I remember never wanting any one else to feel that way.

So I apologize ahead of time to those of you in my life already who are getting closer to me, to those of you who are close to me, and to those of you strangers out there who will become a big part of my life. I apologize if I get comfortable around you to go off about worrying for someone else. I apologize for asking for your opinion and asking for help whenever it is that I do. I apologize for spending a lot of time talking about my relationship with others, or their life and how I would like to help. I apologize for wanting to help you, in any way I can, which means asking to know more about your life and where I can stand. I apologize if it comes cumbersome to hear about these things. I apologize if I don’t pay attention to you enough when things get overwhelming. I apologize for not being genuinely present with you because of something that is happening in someone else’s life. I apologize for wanting to help as much as I can. I apologize if it becomes a drag. I apologize if I sound like I’m nagging. I apologize if I seem to get overbearing. I apologize…for being me.

But I am this way because I remember what it was like to have no one guide me the right way. I remember what it was like to be lost in the world, like we all kind of still are. I remember being forgetful and wishing there was someone to remind me. I remember wanting to have someone to simply ask about my days. I remember wishing there was someone who genuinely wanted to take care of me. I remember wishing there was someone to help me with the weight on my shoulders.

I remember.

I know what it’s like, just like a lot of us do. I know how it feels like. I know what kinds of thoughts begin to flood through your head. I know. I know, and I want to do something.

I might not be able to take all the weight off your shoulders, but I can be there and give you and helping hand whenever it is that I can. I might not be able to control some variables in life, but I can be there to remind you that you are never alone in this fight. I might not be able to do everything for you, but I can help you through it. I might not be able to help as much as I want to, but I can definitely try.

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Medically, It Sucks. Mentally, It’s Hell.

Medically, It Sucks. Mentally, It’s Hell.

I remember how my mother sounded every time she warned me, told me, not to do something; I hated it.

I remember the look in my fathers eyes when I would try to help out; it made my skin crawl.

I remember the tone of voice whenever my sister talked to me about school or of the future, in a praising manner; it always would make me upset.

I remember how much my friends had to look out for me during the past several years; it haunted me.

I remember how worried my family was for me; I felt like such a burden.

I remember the looks I got from every single person who visited me in the hospital; I felt like I was in a fishbowl somewhere in an aquarium.

I remember how the nurses would take care of me; I didn’t want to be there.

I remember…what it felt like to be treated as if I was disabled. It disgusts me.

I couldn’t walk by myself. I couldn’t lift anything over a few ounces (not even ONE POUND). I couldn’t raise my hands over my head. I couldn’t lay down by myself. I couldn’t use the restroom alone. I couldn’t get up, sit down, etc. without needing to call for someone’s help. I couldn’t take a shower. I couldn’t help with the move. I couldn’t do…anything.

I hated that feeling, but I understood. After all, I was healing from surgery. I was fragile. I was weak. I was fatigue. I was in a lot of pain. I struggled. So I was grateful, in a sense. I needed the help. I needed it.

But…the way people treat me…hasn’t changed much.

There are still times, more often than you would think, where I am treated and made feel as if I’m healing after surgery once again. I hate, hate, HATE feeling disabled. I hate feeling and getting treated as if people don’t think I can carry my own weight.

The look on their face when I tell them about my medical history: shock.
The way their behavior changes around me when I tell them about what I’m physically dealing with right now: 180 degrees change.
Their attitude towards me and the level of them feeling as if they need to “walk around the bush” when it comes to my feelings: wow.

Yes, I have my struggles. Yes, I have my medical history. Yes, I have been through a lot more and am dealing with a lot more than someone would expect a 19 year old to know about first-hand. Yes, life sucks sometimes. Yes, I get physically drained, and therefore mentally drained, because of what I have to put up with medically. Yes, that’s my life.

I appreciate it when people are wary of me when I’m at a weak spot either physically or mentally because of my conditions. I appreciate it when people take into consideration my conditions. But, honestly, I sometimes appreciate it EVEN MORE when they don’t stress out about me.

I know that feeling of helplessness is a horrid emotion to stomach, so accept it; accept that you cannot do anything to better my state. I know it’s scary sometimes to see someone so young to deal with the things I do, so get used to it; get used to my symptoms because they are a normal part of my life now. I know that desire to make things better for me eats at your heart, so I’m sorry; I’m sorry because I know you cannot do anything. I’m sorry.

You can try, but I can’t promise you will better the condition.

Just, please, don’t stress about me. Don’t treat me so different you go over-the-top. Don’t make me feel as if I am a burden to you. Don’t make me feel as if I am disabled, when I’m not. Don’t do that, please.

April 19: Fake

April 19: Fake

He fakes the smile on his face. He fakes the bounce in his steps. He fakes the enthusiasm and happiness around his friends. He fakes the happy thoughts when he wants time to end.

They don’t ask him anymore. He use to go to them for everything. He use to say what was on his mind. Someone, that one, would know everything that went on around him and with him, with time…but not this time.

He silently screams for help but no one hears. He knows no one hears him; a part of him doesn’t want anyone to listen. He is scared to make a single sound. After everything he’s gone through, he sometimes doesn’t want to be found.

He sits in the dark. He watches as blood leaks from his skin. He runs his hands over the scratches along his legs. He grabs at his hair and screams silently into the empty space in front. But no one hears, because these screams are only in his head.

He imagines people seeing through his mask. He pictures countless ways of them convincing him to let them help. He wants to let them, but he needs to be convinced. He wants to believe someone cares and someone loves him – like he once thought – but he needs to be convinced. He needs to feel it again. He needs to feel he has worth and his life is worth living.

Until then, he will continue to scream. He will continue to not make a sound. He will continue to wait, until he cannot anymore, until he can’t take it anymore.

Then…he won’t be able to make a sound.

Fake