With another sleepless night, come a million and twenty restless thoughts.
I had a fight with my middle sister today. It wasn't so much a fight, but rather an instance in which a truth she told me -- a truth I'm aware of and repeat to myself on a nightly basis -- hurt. And isn't that the worst? Isn't knowing something -- a truth, a fact -- down to your bones one of the most soul-crushing things in the world? The truth hurts because it shines a flashlight on a murky part of life, illuminating every dark crevice to show us the ugly creatures that are hell-bent on ruining our realities with their mere existence.
The truth hurts and my sister spoke of this truth and boy. It seared me.
I repeat I already knew this truth. Have been aware of it for months. But to know a truth and to have someone else tell you that truth is another thing. Because having someone else voice this reality grounds it; gives it credence; validates it. Because having someone else voice this fact reinforces a certainty you wish you did not know.
It's hard for me to accept things in life. I hold on to people, places, things longer than I have to. I loathe change. Hell, this might even be the reason I clung to the mistaken assumption that I was happy last year. I don't like to accept things as they come. I try not to be, but I'm suspicious of a lot of things. How can I trust that things will be all right, when I've never had them happen to me? I don't feel that I've lived enough, but I'm leery of pushing myself outside of my comfort zone. Talk about first-world problem, right?
Having my sister voice this fact angered me because, unlike everyone else in my life, she killed whatever hope was left. And let's face it: it's easier to dislike whatever kills whatever hope we have, than it is to learn new coping mechanisms.
It amazes me how many things I need to re-learn.
The truth hurts and my sister spoke of this truth and boy. It seared me.
I repeat I already knew this truth. Have been aware of it for months. But to know a truth and to have someone else tell you that truth is another thing. Because having someone else voice this reality grounds it; gives it credence; validates it. Because having someone else voice this fact reinforces a certainty you wish you did not know.
It's hard for me to accept things in life. I hold on to people, places, things longer than I have to. I loathe change. Hell, this might even be the reason I clung to the mistaken assumption that I was happy last year. I don't like to accept things as they come. I try not to be, but I'm suspicious of a lot of things. How can I trust that things will be all right, when I've never had them happen to me? I don't feel that I've lived enough, but I'm leery of pushing myself outside of my comfort zone. Talk about first-world problem, right?
Having my sister voice this fact angered me because, unlike everyone else in my life, she killed whatever hope was left. And let's face it: it's easier to dislike whatever kills whatever hope we have, than it is to learn new coping mechanisms.
It amazes me how many things I need to re-learn.
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