I Write Because I Cannot Talk To Them

My first love compared being with me to peeling several layers of something. I think she said an onion; I cannot recall accurately. I have a good memory but my brain practice's a natural repression for pain. I was horrible at expressing my views and wishes. I would spread misunderstanding every time I opened my mouth and it's somewhat of a miracle that I still have friends. I am now able to articulate my feelings, views, and their complexities vividly to the point that people sometimes pay me for it. I have had strangers reaching out to me and sharing their stories from the comfort my words gave them. I have had acquaintances turn into friendships because of words.

I cannot say that the same is true for two people. They regularly ask me to speak up and talk to them but it either ends in a catastrophic misunderstanding or an uncomfortable silence which is never broken by me.

I feel sad when I cannot speak up on demand or when the lines I have carefully structured come out too watered down to create any desired effect. I have to put all my strength in saying 'No' and being stubborn to their displeasure.

"Why don't you write and tell them?"

I did. It seemed to help for a while but it really didn't.

I am 25. I live with them and feel great shame for it. The culture I live in doesn't see a harm in this fact but the most pressing problems it faces come from this innocuous promotion of the 'Man-Child' arrangement. I see it every day and yet, it offers me some benefits which I am too scared to give up.

I am tired though. I am tired of feeling an insatiable rage on being infantilised and patronised, only to have existential guilt and shame following soon after. 'How could you say or think such things?' and 'They are all you will have' are few of the sermons I dismiss publically as excuses for their behaviour from those who don't see what I go through. The truth is that these thoughts are embedded too deep in my subconscious to ever leave me. They flood my face with tears.

I cry at my inability to say what I truly feel. I cry at my horrid views and opinions of them. I cry at my rage which I cannot let out in an unhinged manner. I cry for the cage which stifles me. I cry for my biological love and my inability to see it. I cry at my biological love and how it has constantly failed me.

I have tried to get therapists to help me with this. But the truth is, nobody can. The two are closer in age to the man-baby who is presently the most powerful person on Earth. If you can't expect him to change, how can I expect them to?

So I fight little battles for space. I sometimes win. But if I lose, I lose horribly.

I write because I dream. I write because I have something to say. I write because I listen.

I write for hope.

It won't make up for it. Nothing ever does.

But I will be accepted. Someone. Somewhere.

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