I feel myself reaching. Trying to grab hold of anything that will keep you here. Anything to keep you standing in my doorway. I have a huge weight on my shoulders. Something inside me yearning to burst out. Something I have to tell you, and you alone. Please don't leave. I know you don't care about the little things I'm ranting about, but I don't know how else to make you stay. But here I am doing everything in my power to keep you with me, to keep you in my room; and I'm dying to tell you something. But I can't figure out what it is. I keep glancing at my journal. do I need to hide it? Mention it? Or should I show you? Maybe that's it. Maybe I should show you what I've been writing. No. How could I even think it? How could I be so selfish? The reason I haven't shown anyone is because they'll freak out. They will think I'm a huge mental case with severe depression and I'm beyond their control. And maybe I am. But I can't show them, I can't show anyone...especially you. You'd probably trey and find some help for me, and during breaks think back. Think back through the past 16 years you've known me and try to figure out where you went wrong. You'd probably feel worthless because you've worked so hard, given up yourself and your life for me, and for my life. But look how I turned out. And through all your stress, and all your sacrifices and gifts, all I do is make everything worse. I know. Don't deny it, especially if you're trying to make me feel better. I can see it. I cause more stress, more pain, but less sleep and I waste you're time. And you think I can't see or appreciate it. Because I don't show it. I'm selfish. I'm selfish then, I'm selfish now trying to keep you to myself. But maybe, the reason why I need you here, maybe what I've been needing to say all this time was just that I love you. I love you so much. And not because you do things for me, or because you give me everything. I love you for the small things like your rimless glasses, your morning routine, the way your forehead crinkles; like your little chuckle laugh, and the "i love you forever", things like your love of country music and all your imitations of the accent.
I lay here now with one image in my head: your back is slowly turning and you drag my door with your steps, getting farther and farther away from me. I stay silent to the world, while inside I'm screaming at the top of my lungs towards a cause I know nothing about. I so desperately want to share this and my other writings with you. But I can't take the risk of you thinking anything bad about me. So I allow the door to close. I surrender to myself, and can feel nothing but the distance.
I'm so sorry.
