If there’s a sadness induced migraine, then I’m having one.
It’s nothing new really. A fight, some hurtful words, no apologies, and letting things drop for the sake of peace. In short, no resolutions. We claw at each other and leave a few wounds to fester thinking they’ll just dry out. We’re family, so they do, sometimes.
I’m a little bit depressed I guess. I’m giving myself the day to wallow.
I’ve always been portrayed as a tough bitch in my family. I don’t mind it. In fact, growing up, I kinda encouraged this. Being the youngest, it gave me a bit of protection. I could hold my own against anybody. I’m stubborn, I can be nasty, hot headed, and vengeful; but I’m not all bad. I hope that as I get older, I’m getting better. I’m aware of my shortcomings and I do try to improve myself.
Everyone goes through tough times and I’ve had my share. What really pushes my buttons is when I’m called—more than once this person has done this and without sufficient explanation—an “angry person.” Let’s just say that it doesn’t sit well with me, being portrayed as “angry.” I do not deny that at some point I’ve felt anger toward certain persons, situations, heck maybe the world, but I really dislike the characterization of angry person. It’s so narrow, limited, and makes me so one-dimensional.
It makes me even sadder, because how can someone who really knows me describe me in such a fashion? I’ve been given all sorts of excuses as to why we don’t discuss stuff, such as “they’re afraid of me.” That’s a favorite—of mine and this person’s. Mine because I find it so ridiculously hurtful that I don’t know which I should do first, laugh or cry; the other person’s because it was repeated a few times. I’m the big bad wolf. Maybe I should just live up to it.
It’s not like I haven’t tried. I can be very closed up and secretive. But I’ve tried to share more of myself too. It’s just that, I suppose my life’s just not exciting enough for them. I’ve learned not too be too hurt when people don’t pay attention, because really, I’m not one to fight for it.
I’ve learned to retaliate. Although my asking for people to hurry their winding story along isn’t one of those ways to get back at them, apparently, it was taken as such. Being honest and occasionally refusing to listen to certain stories—one out of 50 is a fair estimate—is also a black mark against me. My strong opinions make this person squirm sometimes, so I suppose that’s one way I retaliate.
In my thirty-some odd years of existence, I usually feel alone and out of place, I’m quite used to it. It doesn’t mean it’s easy. Also, the knowledge that nobody cares enough to get to know you truly and properly, not even within your family, just breaks my heart.
Days like this make want to just close embassy. Cut contact for a few. To not to be too available. One part of me always argues for making peace, especially with family. You never know, right? But the other part of me is still hurting.