Holding onto anger also means holding onto love, especially for me. If Jonah's still pissed at me, and won't stop complaining about me, does that mean he still holds love for me? Maybe a little? D:
Oh who am I kidding... sigh...
Because the angrier I get and compare Garret to Jonah, complaining about the things Garret does that Jonah never did, the more I seem to...
I realize everything that Jonah did and what he did it as. He wanted to have fun with me, not be a serious relationship where I drag him down all the time. He wanted to play, and laugh, and some romance on the side. I was... so wrong. So wrong in our relationship. I see this because being with Garret, I find myself thinking the same things as Jonah... lesser forms, but... There's some bittersweet realization going on, and I find that maybe it was both of our faults that we broke up, but more of me, and I don't know if he misses me at all, but I dearly miss him.
Sad. I can't get over my ex. And it's making me regret my boyfriend. Jonah was snarky, silly, loud, violent... Sweet, pervy, caring... Protective...
I want one more chance, one more time to show him I'm still Shelby. The happy, loving, caring, funny Shelby that he fell in love with.
But I'll never get it. Brea's... better than me. She always has been. And now, there's nothing I can do about it. I have to stick and see if I can get over Jonah and commit myself to Garret... No matter how tough it is, I have to let go, because otherwise, I think I'm going to slip away again. I know who I am, I've found it again. No more letting my emotions take control of me. I have to let it bottle up. That's the only way I can be truly happy. I don't have more problems than anybody else, in fact, I have less. I have a great life. With a terrible mental health.
I need out...
Out of this mental trap that keeps me so difficult... difficult to handle, to love, to laugh with...
Anger is a terrible emotion. You know? We all think that love and hate are complete opposites... when in reality, they're basically the same. Sometimes we confuse the two, in fact. When you go thinking you hate something that you love, you get so angry. Angry at everything. I like to think that maybe this whole world is made for me, to teach me, to cradle me and love me and I am god, I've been god this whole time, and that's why I live this life. Because it's all I have.
Or I'm already in heaven or hell, and there's no real life...
What am I talking about?
I'm crazy. I'm insane.
"I wish to be alone, to sulk in my memories until the lesson is learned; until the fire has burned, until the tide has turned..."
An angel in soul, a demon in mind, and a human in heart.
However will I balance this? I am the scurrying rat nibbling on the leftover garbage on the dirty streets. I am the crow, landing on your front lawn and "ka-caww"ing all the time, never letting the silence reach your ears. I am the little piece of mold on your bread that you don't notice when you're eating, and it goes into your digestive tract and gives you a bellyache.
Yeah. That's me. Trying to live, but causing unrest. I want to fade into the shadows, have everyone forget about me. It seems it would make the drama stop. There'd come a day where everyone'd go "Where's Shelby?" and notice I'm not there, that the little void in the back of the group where I stand is empty, my quiet voice isn't saying little stupid things anymore, and the air is chilled like your leftover spaghetti dinner from last night that you threw away a minute ago because you decided you won't eat it, and some kid in Africa is crying because he's starving and would love some chilled spaghetti.
Guess where I am? Feeding that child.
I'm going crazy so I must keep writing, keep writing until the end of my story is told, but I will run out of pages, and you see, that's when you die. You could write more story of your life, but the pages run out because you ripped some out as a teenager to doodle on or you spilled some coffee on them and thought "Oh a few pages won't matter" and just tore them out as well. Or you just burned your book because you got tired of writing, tired of clicking the black keys on the keyboard or writing with the dull pencil that the graphite always falls out RIGHT when it gets sharp when you sharpen it, or the pen that you start writing with but it stops and you have to scribble a little on the corner of a page and then you're like "Damn that looks unattractive now".
Me? I'm sick of drawing, sick of trying to pretend my story isn't there to write. I'm sick of sketching and drawing and trying to erase the pictures in my story, and never finding the words to keep it going. I want to burn the book, I want to shred it up... I can't, no, the book has to end. I must write a suitable ending to my story unlike everyone else, but mine, oh mine will be poetry, sweet poetry, and when it ends everyone will feel satisfied, like they've just sipped the finest aged wine, or got a mouthful of the sweetest, creamiest ice cream that you just let melt on your tongue, the flavor spreading around like music flowing through the air.
But back to disappearing. I'm dramatic. I'm beautifully dramatic, only in my writing, for this is my voice. I stumble on my words in real life, I must pause between words to gather my thoughts. It's annoying. It shows weakness. I suppose, I am weak, I'm very weak indeed. But I'm also extensively strong. I am strong for my friends, strong for the people I love, but weak when I am alone.
And that is why I cut.
My friends, my loves, bring me strength, and I realized...
Who needs strength if you have nothing to use it for? Why be strong if you have nothing to protect with it? That just brews lust for power, and then evil. Strength without purpose destroys people. Like it destroyed me.
I became... power-hungry in my relationship with Jonah. I wanted more, and more, and more. I guess I didn't know what I was saying, Jonah was nearly perfect the way he was. I liked his snappy selfishness, it was annoying but it was HIM, he didn't let anybody tell him differently...
And then I became a hollow shell, a peanut M n' M if you must. I am eating them right now, the way I eat M n' M's, sucking on them and then breaking the shell open. I don't like the shell as much as the inside, of course, but I don't just break them open and get it out right away. I let the shell come off when it wants to, and then I savor the chocolate while it lasts. But peanut M n' M's, they have that nut. I hate them. The nut is like a third part of the M n' M that doesn't need to be there. I don't like finishing with a nut, it's not as good as chocolate.
I'm a nut. Or I became one.
I'm drifting off course here. I enjoy writing this out though.
So, thanks for the people who read all of this. Thanks for the people who'll comment and tell me that my writing's ok. Maybe not awesome.
Talk to you later. My sister's here.