Pieces of Writing

Social Life

Maybe because of school, but I remember being called names. Bossy, annoying, stupid, ugly, and so many more. It may not seem like much, but I'd rather not remember. Maybe that's why I have little to no recognition of when I was in elementary and middle school. Only bits and pieces. Scattered fragments that have been left to rot. Little things like random things. Nothing big.

I don't even remember half the things that I felt. Some may think I moved on. I don't think forgetting is moving on. I think I ran away. But I can't remember. And I don't want to. Is that being immature? Is running away from emotions that at the time felt like too much? I've been told I was very mature for my age. People always guess that I'm older than I really am, that I have a sense of propriety. But is that a fact? Or is that a recurring opinion? I think yesterday was me ranting. Writing it down rather than speaking my mind. Maybe because I felt no one would hear my call, my cry, my plea. Maybe it's easier to write it down then tell a person face to face. Communication was never my strong point. People that have met me say I am very social. But I don't think I am. I had to be social. Why? Because someone else needed me to. I the child was told to ask for things when the adult was not comfortable with doing so themselves. I the child was forced to go to school with people I did not know. I the child was looked down upon for defending myself. I the child was accused of things that I did not do. I the child was forced to clean up after the false accusations. When adults do this to a child what happens? The child starts to not want to talk, for whatever the child says is ignored. The child clams up, bottling up all the things they feel. And the child slowly wants to die. Maybe not so much at the start, but when things just don't get better the child feels like they don't know what to do. When someone tells you to change so that others will like you. How do you change? Why does the child have to change? Because everything is already set. The child has to go down the thin and narrow road. The child can't stray from the path. Why? Because otherwise, the child will be alone. Why would the child be alone? I don't know. Maybe because no one wants to be with someone outside the box. Maybe because they have to all fit in the tinny tin can. Packed like sardines. Mashed together. Is it wrong to be weird? But then, what is weird? Is it being different? But then why do people say that we are all different? Why do people all say we are special because we are different? But if we are all different, and if we are all special, does that mean no one is special? Is that how it works? If I don't know someone does that make them any less special? Because there are a lot of people I don't know. There are a lot of people I do know. But some of the people I know hold no meaning in my heart. But some people I know hold a bit too much of my heart. Did you know, some of the people I would give my life for, I would never give them my heart. I would give everything but myself. I would hold them close but seal my pain away. Is it because I don't want them to worry? But if they worry that means they care. Does that mean I don't want them to care? I don't know. Maybe secretly I want them to see my pain, maybe secretly I want them to find out themselves. But is that selfish to ask so much? To speak of no pain but expect them to know? Is that even possible? Would I be able to do that for another? If I can't do it for someone else, how can I expect someone else to do it for me?

And so I keep thinking.