Perhaps the worst thing about being an introvert is desperately wanting to be an extrovert.
Tonight I feel so dreadfully alone, it has become hard to breath.
My best friend and I are no longer best friends. There is a strange hollow in my chest that is somehow tight. It takes hold of my lungs and shortens my breath. I do not miss her, but I miss having a her.
I have spent the majority of my high school career in the shadows, waiting patiently for someone to turn on the light. I realize now that no one will turn on the light: only I can. The only problem is, I can’t find the switch.
I want to be able to talk to people without feeling like I’m doing it wrong.
Just to start things off, we hit 40 followers! I know that might not seem like a lot to some bigger bloggers, but to me this means everything. I started this blog as a way to relieve some stress, but now people are actually reading some of the stuff I write. Im not going to lie, thats both terrifying and exhilarating. Anyway thank you.
Let’s talk about school:
I joined a writing club at school. It’s really informal and my english teacher is just letting kids come and write poetry, but I really love it. I’m entering some of the things I’ve written on this blog in a poetry contest. If anyone has any feedback on any of my poems that would be very helpful.
Junior year has been hard. Pressure from my parents to do well has increased to a point where I can’t do anything without thinking about my future. I’m taking the SAT soon, so let’s all cross our fingers that I do well.
I’m not as depressed as I was. I’m genuinely happier. I write about a lot of depressing posts, but I write those when I can feel that little dark part of my mind grow. When I write, that darkness seems to shrink into a manageable size. Thank you all for reading.
The promise of a new hope
Stole you from my weakened arms
You ran with them in the wind
But left me behind to rot
With skin long gone from decay
I bite my tongue now stained red
From the blood filling my mouth
I begged you not to leave me
I tried to hold on to you
But my hands grew stiff and numb
From the ice that left your lips
A bitterness plagues my mind
I contracted it from yours
I allowed it to fester
I let it cloud my judgement
But I will rise above you
I won’t pick you up again
When they let you fall to Earth
I will grow back healthier
Than I ever was with you
I love to write, but the only writing pieces that I can finish, are the sad ones. The ones where I explain that little pit of black in the back of my brain. I want to write about the beauty in this world because there is so much of it. Instead, only words filled with anger and something so suffocating fill the page. I hate that I can’t seem to put the good into words, but the bad comes so easily. I’ve tried to think and write positively, but it’s so much easier to write about the negative because it’s so much easier to see. Each piece of positively is sloppy and is not worth anyones time, but the depressing one’s are better. More relatable, I guess. It’s easier to fall into to that black pit and let it’s claws guide my hands on the paper. I know that I am a negative person and can only see a few steps ahead. I want to change that, but I don’t know how.
A burn on my hand sings in hot pain. The skin has already become a pale pink and shines a bit more than the rest. Pancakes. A burn for pancakes. Seems like a fair trade to me. I whisk together more of the mixture and water, scraping at the bottom of the bowl. When the off-white liquid becomes the same viscosity of glue, I pour it on the griddle. Steam rises and sizzles as the pancake cooks. I quickly add chocolate chips to the top and they sink a bit into the already thickening liquid.
My grandmother says I eat too much food because it’s the only thing in my life that I can control. That the amount of food I allow into my body is the one thing that only I can change. She’s right, but I’ll never tell her that. I don’t eat lunch or dinner or breakfast. Instead, I graze throughout the day. Sometimes, when I’m bored, I eat so much my stomach aches. Other days I don’t eat anything at all. I like to tell myself that I have control in other aspects like my emotions. That I can control the way my surroundings affect me, but we all know that’s far from the truth. My brain feels like a snow globe. Small, glittering flakes whirl around a tiny, glass container. Than, they settle on the bottom until someone comes back to shake up the globe again. They are dependent on everything, but me.
The edges of the pancakes change from shiny to matte. I pick up the black spatula and flip them. The surface of the almost-perfect circle is a delicious golden brown. I allow the pancake to bake a bit more and remove it from the black, hot surface. Waiting for the pancake to cool is hardest part, so I usually skip it. I eat the one that isn’t going to completely burn my tongue first. Almost-molten chocolate coats the roof of my mouth as I enjoy the pancake.