I don’t think I have any more apologies residing within me. This requires me to start from the top: I didn’t grow up knowing that my womanhood would always be resorted to my abundance of emotions. There were so many things in the world that were never my own doing but I felt responsible for. What was harder to deal with was that growing up I was always blamed for being so apologetic and sad because of my unstable emotional state. I would ask my grandmother how she would deal with these feelings of, say, rejection or not feeling good enough for saying something that inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings. Her answer was always the same, and still is as I’m older, which was, “Shit happens.”
Dear Ex Bestie (or whatever nickname we gave to one another at the time),
It would be rude of me not to ask about your life. Are you happy? Well fed? Is life coming together well for you and yours? How’s work? Is your love life plentiful?
I think it’s only right to break the ice, to say something that I have no shame in doing but sometimes too stubborn to say: I’m sorry. I am sorry for not being the bigger, better person by expressing my frustrations and disgust with your behavior. I’m sorry for not being able to face you and tell you all your wrong doings despite how right you thought you were.
I want to explain why I broke away from “us.” I want you to finally know after almost half a decade as to why I cut all ties. It’s because I had to. You were toxic and painful, manipulative and a bully. You hurt me, you belittled me, you defamed my character all for the sake of you. For you to be the shining star in the sea of “ugly fish.” You wanted to be desired by everyone and keep everyone to yourself for yourself. In return of the countless hours I spent soothing you, consoling you, and ultimately bonding with you, I was treated like shit. I felt like myself with you, I felt like I had found a true love in a best friend to be returned with insults about my shape, my weight, my tits, and even my feelings about your friends who showed interest in me. But how could they when I was no you. How could they care for a chick with ugly tits shaped like a fish in comparison to the almighty YOU.
This isn’t a grudge. This is me finally acknowledging that you never wanted a friend, you just wanted someone to make you look better. You wanted a fan. All you ever wanted was to hear you were amazing and great, beautiful and fantastic, creative and super funny when in actuality you’re miserable. You’re the embodiment of misery and the utter lack of ambitions.
You want to be praised. Constantly, from men, your friends, and even your family. You want to be the superstar of a small shitty town when I have always seen through you. You’re hurt and lonely, you’re desperate for something you’re too afraid to ask for. I wanted you to see that. I wanted you to understand that I knew how that felt and you didn’t have to be that person with me. I know the real you, I saw the true you and in the end I was belittled. Because you’re the Queen Bee making slaves out of friends, you made it known to the hive that I was nothing more than a sad lonely fat hag. And that’s who you truly are. That is who you will forever think you’ll be and I that’s why I cut all ties with you.
I’ve wanted nothing more than the best for you. I loved you truly and unconditionally, and that’s why I couldn’t let you take advantage of me anymore.
I deserved better from a friend, and I have that. I’ve always had that but I would never have that with you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you still haven’t learned your lesson.
Facebook holds a plethora of shareable images that always challenge you to share it for the love of this or for an Amen for that. Some of these images I like to share, mostly being memes and quotes that ring true to not just myself but those around me, but what I also find myself encountering are the more parental based images. The maternal ones. The “share if you love your mom” or “share if you’d be lost without your mother” sort of photos that I constantly dread to see every mother’s day. It’s not that I don’t agree that a mother doesn’t hold this importance in someone’s life, it’s just that they don’t and will never apply to me.
Is it true that only the truly depressed can create their best art?
You see, I’m asking for a friend. This friend is an artist, in the new age meaning of the term, but she overwhelms herself by thinking she can do it all, yet the biggest problem she has is that she truly can’t create at all. Her problem is that she thinks she’s not sad enough, or that she’s way too sad. Picasso had a period of his best work. Van Gogh was known for being an artist solely from his depression. Then there are poets who pick apart their sadness and create a beautiful blanket using words and wrap us all up inside.
I told this friend that glamorizing the mentally ill was a poor route to go.
I told her that perhaps it wasn’t sadness that made them create, but for the sake of hope. You hold on to this slither of beauty and this big bright idea that you can make something, anything, from the throes of your ultimate sadness or anger or nothingness that are you emotions. Sometimes it works in their favor, I believe. Sometimes they create so many beautiful things even when they feel less than, because some day, one day, they’ll remember that that dark day wasn’t as dark as they thought.
I told this friend that she can make art no matter what.
That she’s capable of taking pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, thumbs to phone, graphite to canvas and make something that will at least just make her feel better. I said maybe that’s why those artists became so big, because they did things that made them feel better and won the jackpot on making others feel good because of them. Because artists are made to share their love, to spread their joy, and all emotions to just help those others not feel so alone.
I’m asking for a friend because she won’t believe me. I’ve been telling her this all her life and she just won’t believe me. What would you tell her?
There are a many of things I’ve been called my whole life. Some of the more racially powered things have been discussed here, but even within that discussion, the name sensitive is one of them. I used to be deathly offended by this word: sensitive. There’s nothing positive about it, so why would I treat it as such?
Times have changed and I’ve gotten older. With age comes wisdom, for some, and for me it was only in my nature to defend myself as I began to define myself. I’ve learned that I’m an INFJ and a Highly Sensitive Person.What it means is I take things harder than some and I am more reflective of those feelings, among others. What if really means that I’m not weak, I am not lesser, and no matter what, I deserve respect.