Insight

They don’t know me.

If they knew me, maybe they would understand.

If they knew me, they would know how many detours have barricaded my endeavors.

If they knew me, they would know about the burdens I put up with, just to keep things from being dismantled.

If they knew me, they would know about the anxiety I get for seemingly stupid things like ordering food at the food court, or making my own doctor appointments.

If they knew me, they would know about the dreams I’m too afraid to pursue because my thoughts echo it’s too competitive and out of reach. You’ll never make it.

If they knew me, they would know that under all the pressure of having to work a job I despise, while maintaining good grades and a social life, I’m suffocating.

If they knew me, I wouldn’t have to write entries in my journal to cope with damaging events.

If they knew me, they’d know about the thoughts I can’t convey.

If they knew me, they would know how much anger I contain in this 5 foot tall body of mine.

If they knew me, they would know that I once mastered pain, sorrow, hatred, and anger.

Angry at my mother for never having fought for me and giving me away as if I were just some useless, old t-shirt sitting in her closet that she never even wore.

Angry at my mother for never even giving me the chance to become attached to her.

Is that why I didn’t cry when I was separated from her on my first day of school, like most of my classmates?

Angry at my mother for telling me lie to my therapist. Didn’t she want me to get help?

Angry at my mother for making me feel as if I were less than ideal.

Angry at my mother for letting me grow up with the wrong idea of love.

It’s not supposed to be cheating, dishonesty, deception, and lack of trust.

It’s not supposed to be constant arguments that I can hear all the way from my room upstairs, with the door shut.

It’s not supposed to be anything less than you deserve.

It’s not supposed to be something you settle for.

Angry at my father for making me feel cheap when he thought he could buy my forgiveness.

I’m not materialistic.

Angry at my father for leaving when things got tough.

Angry at my father for being absent simply because it was easier.

I still remember seeing him drive off in his Honda Civic every time, telling me he was just going to run errands.

Angry at my father for not having been a good husband.

Angry at my father for making me feel like I’m not good enough.

Angry at my parents for never giving me the illusion that they were perfect or heroic, even when I was a child.

Angry at my parents for never taking the time to try to get to know who I am.

Angry at my parents for not knowing about the things bottled up inside me that are already at capacity and overflowing.

Angry at my brother for making me afraid of him. I can still feel the bruises.

Angry at my sister for exposing me to violence. I still remember what he looked like bawling on the floor, trembling like an abused puppy.

Angry at my sister for welcoming someone into our home who makes me too afraid to ever leave my door unlocked.

Angry at my sister for being like my father; never around.

If they ever took the time to get to know me,

They would find someone with no direction.

Inside me, they would find someone unfamiliar with love and affection.

Inside me, they would find someone incomplete.

Inside me, they would find someone who was once so down to Earth and sweet.

Inside me, they would find someone who wants to continue to change.

Inside me, they would find someone whose priorities don’t need to be rearranged.

Inside me, they would find someone who’s tired, but ambitious.

Inside me, they would find someone spiritual, not religious.

Inside me, they would find someone always ready to forgive.

Inside me, they would find someone like them.

Inside me, they would find that my soul is an illuminating amber.