A Change in Pace . . .

Stumbling Around in Heaven

Because I like to be alone, and because I am almost stunningly internal at points, I spend too much time thinking about myself. Not so much how things should be for me, but my personality.

I have a problem that it sometimes hard for me to remember that I am real. Not all the time, and it's not usually an issue, but it strikes at odd moments. I think that's part of why I think about what makes me up, how I feel, why I am the way I am. It's a reassuring thing. If I scribble over the outlines of my "self" enough, maybe it'll stay solid.

It's weird. I know.

Partially, it's because I've spent much of my life making sure my emotional reality is not seen. Happiness is acceptable, so that's what I show most of the time. Anger is okay, sometimes, but only at certain people and only up to a point. Bitterness, never. Sadness . . . sadness causes more problems than it helps.

I say this not to whine, but to explain the title. As a result of all my naval-gazing, I am fiercely protective of my personality. I like being prickly and weird and morbid and all the random things that make me myself. Perhaps my enjoyment and protection of them is just another personality fault, but I just don't care. I need to be me, or I would have been swallowed up years ago.

And part of me is a nasty sense of humor, a larcenous if non-practicing state of mind, and a sometimes self-righteous rage. Healthy? Probably not. But would it be healthier to change myself to be more appealing? I want to be a better person, but why does that always have to end in a sort of lobotomy?

God, this is pretentious. But I need it. And no-one reads this anyway.

I have been angry over stupid things. I have been made sad over stupid things. But I have to argue my right to be angry and sad and amused at innappropriate things, because telling me that I can't be mad when I want to, depressed when I want to, and happy when I want to is killing me.

My life is good. I know that. I have enough money to get by, with some for luxuries. My parents support me (usually) and love me (sometimes too much) and nobody has ever laid a finger on me. I'm smart enough, attractive enough, healthy enough, and all sorts of things that people wish they had. There are many people who are worse off than I am.

But. There are days when I feel as if I'm spinning plates in midair. I shouldn't be responsible for the happiness of so many people besides myself. It's so damn hard sometimes, reassurring and losing my own time and smiling as if it doesn't matter, and smothering myself so that I don't have to soothe somebody for hours.

I'm exhausted.

I just . . . want something to be easy. For once.

Aaaaand off-topic.

Heaven. Stumbling.

My point is, I'm perfectly aware that there are many parts of me that are bad. There's a reason I bake cookies for people--it's to make up for all my other faults. I can't turn down a "clever" insult, even I know it's cruel. I'm usually too tired from emotion-wrangling for other people to work on my own faults.

So if I go to heaven--and I do believe in Jesus Christ as my savior, so if all goes well I will--what am I going to do? Do I get a lobotomy when I go in? I truly don't mean this to "diss" heaven, but I'm scared. Is it wrong of me to value my personality above rapture and eternal bliss? I'm sure it is. But . . . I . . .

I don't want to be perfect.

I don't. I can't. I've played perfect before, and it scrapes across my nerve endings until I'm collapsed on the floor, crying, because I can't say what I want to say and I keep saying it's okay, it's okay, but it's NOT. What people do to me sometimes, making me be good for them so they can be unhappy and have their problems solved by me, it's NOT RIGHT. Nobody cares that sometimes I'm miserable. My misery is only seen in light of them being made miserable by my misery, so that all I want to do is curl up and sleep and instead I spend an hour repudiating the truth.

"No, I'm not really unhappy, you didn't make me unhappy, I'm sorry I made you sad by being sad. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

How can everything be perfect for me in perfection? If I'm perfect, everything won't be perfect. Sad, but true.

(I'm more than I can show you, so stop telling me to grow up. In truth, I'm more emotionally mature than you think; you just don't want to know what I see when I look at you. Sometimes I'm laughing so I won't hate you as much. And you--I wonder if you see any of my depth. I try to tell you, and you can't hear anything you don't agree with.)

I have deep and abiding faith in a religion I'm not sure would like me very much if it looked at me properly. What does that mean?

*A great exhalated breath.*

The worse part is that as I write this, I'm gritting my teeth and praying that nobody I know ever sees this. But I need to post it. Ah, the internet--a great big sky that I could get lost in. I want to stop repressing--but only if nobody sees it.

Or at least, nobody real. Remember that problem I have with real? I was looking up my first name on the the facebook--yeah, yeah, leave me alone--and was terrified by all the results. I'm not used to seeing it around. But seeing all those people who weren't me--but could have been, might have been, are walking around carrying a piece of what I've always thought of as myself . . . it wasn't fun. I've stopped looking in mirrors very much anymore. You see, I am a very poor visualizer, and the image I carry of myself in my head doesn't really look like me. The person in the mirror doesn't look like "me," but she speaks my words. That's difficult.

Mmm.

Shrug, shrug, shrug.

Catharsis. It won't last, but it helps a little.

. . . I don't have a pithy sign-off, or something to make you giggle and lighten this great gulp of melancholy I've left on this screen. I don't even have a note of hope. I might learn to manage this better, but it will never ever change. Not entirely.

God . . . I love you. Please don't hate me for not being as good as I should be, and for resising being better. Please don't make me change.

I'm so tired . . . and I have miles to read before I sleep.

----
There is a glass on the shelf
and there are many liquids to fill it
but sometimes I wish I could
leave it empty and see through it.

Hmmm. Can't shut up. Hope you didn't read this far, imaginary person. I suspect you're either weirded out or laughing by now. Or bored. Probably bored.

What? I'm pragmatic. I know I'm being boring. Whine whine whine. Don't care. At least my throat's a little clearer.

. . . remember when I bucked the stereotype? Self-absorbed, self-absorbed. How much do you detest me, ghost on the other line?

Just once, I want to cry without making somebody else cry with me.