I turned away from the crying woman sitting at my desk. I couldn’t stand it anymore. Sometimes I don’t know how to feel about the people that come and go from my office. I never know when to feel bad anymore. Every situation is different so I say that I am sorry to the woman. She tells me not to pity her: “What you pity, stands apart from you. What is close is not pitiful, only what you do not understand, what you hope to cherish from a safe distance.” I just stare, not knowing what to say. She says: “If you’re going to sign onto HAMP, you have to follow the rules. These homeowners followed the rules, and now it’s time for Chase to.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I really hate my job.
I’m sitting alone on my couch watching a movie and eating popcorn. It’s the one evening I have off this week and I’m alone. I start thinking about my relationship and that he will not come to spend time with me, he insists that I come to him. What are significant other suppose to do, “Awaken or replace you?” “You need someone you can actually be yourself with.” This is not what I have at all.
I was tired of feeling stuck, in more than one way. I didn’t know what to do about it. I can’t focus on my homework. “My leg is always twitching, jumping, joggling. It wants to go places. It has had enough of waiting.” I just want to stop and start over, but every time I start to, something stops me. “As odd as it sounds, sometimes we're comfortable being miserable.”
She was smart and beautiful but embarrassed of herself. No one could figure out why, “but it was her scars that seemed to pain her the most.” Growing up she had skin problems that left scars on her legs. These scars were very visible to her, but only slightly recognizable to others. “I believe that we all suffer from scars of one sort or the other. The worst is the ones you cannot see and may never receive treatment when needed.”
I love writing, all kinds of writing. Somehow I cannot speak as clearly as I can write. Just recently I was given the power to truly express without fear. Sometimes when I am writing, my “thoughts are the limbs of a composition and must be surgically excised from their contexts.” When I am given the opportunity to write about me, I express “anything where the purpose is to express thoughts, feelings and emotions”.
I was focused, calm and rational. I knew how to do my job and I did it well, “but then I begin to wonder if I still resemble myself.” I used to care about people and give them the benefit of the doubt. Not anymore. I really don’t care anymore. “I used to care, but things have changed. I've been walking forty miles of bad road.”
I am quiet, that’s the first thing everyone they all said. I just let everyone think that, it’s easier. “Modest Bronwyn never said a word on her own behalf, but kept what she had; when pushed, gentle Bronwyn never budged.” I often ask “why we underestimate risk in the face of uncertainty.” I am not too concerned; it has always worked in my benefit.
I knew this was wrong, but I just didn’t care anymore. I know I should stop; not caring does not make this right. “These thoughts trembled in my hand, and yet I did not pull away.” I know why all this is happening, “Familiarity has bred indifference.” Resentment has its place as well.
I was crying, feeling horrible and it was not even my fault, it never is but he never fails to make it my fault. Then I broke, I stopped. “All the people I caught myself being instead of me, my unnameables, my monsters, my hybrids, I exhorted them to silence.” “Strength is not a mere happy gift,” it is something we all have.
Caitlyn snuck out of her house and ran all the way to her friend’s house, which was not really that far away. But she was only 8 and it was night. Everyone asked her what she was doing, “in fact, she was hiding.” “And like it always does, the bad just got worse.”
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