One step forward.. a million steps back.

For as quiet as I am in writing here, there are other places that I rattle on and speak of things I have no business speaking of.

One that I had been friends with for several years, gave out contact information of mine to another friend that I had not spoken with for a couple of years. The first of these two friends told of events in my life that never took place, I was upset that my second friend had been lied to.. but more.. there was frustration that in speaking to my second friend, I had to then go into details of why the information he had heard was incorrect as well as what could be likened to jealousy. Who was this woman spoken of and why wasn’t she me? Why was it so easily for one to blithely give out false information to create the illusion of what my life was not?

But that description did not fit my life at all. I could shake my head and wonder why it is the first friend felt the need to go to such elaborate measures to make me out to be in a place where my life is not. Towards the end of the night, my second friend said to not stop thinking positively. As he has known me for many years, he should know such comments are not taken lightly by me. I do not like cliché’s.

That is the biggest problem with me, I acknowledge it. I am a negative person. People do not enjoy spending time with a negative person. Few people can fall in love with a negative person, unless they wish to ‘fix’ said person or attempt to make their lives better, change them.. prove them wrong.

Being this way is a defense mechanism. It is easier for me to not expect positive things, there are then less chances that I will be discouraged. Living with a discouraged outlook, things tend to be fairly even-keeled. There are few surprises, few curves thrown in my direction. Occasionally nice things do happen and for those I am extremely grateful. I cherish those times and remember them for days or months or years. Yet I do not think of them as my birthright, I do not feel I am ‘owed’ them. For some, they have but to worry of the latest fashion, the latest boyfriend or girlfriend, the latest gossip, the latest craze, the latest food, the latest book.. always the latest, the most current.

I tend to think of the past too often, what was, what will not be again, what I took for granted, what I did not savor completely. At 42 years old I already think of myself as much older, even to the point of when I can no longer work, when I will be living on sub-standard income with social security likely gone. There will be little choices and fewer friends.. hoping I do not live to a ‘ripe old age’, because the interminable existence of being elderly with no family or friends about, is not at all what I want.

This is not even what I meant to write of when I got up.. 3 hours after going to bed after tossing and turning for the duration. I lay there thinking of ice, how when a glass has moisture surrounding it and is placed in a freezer, that sheen of thin ice.. how it sparkles and almost cracks.. delicate and yet shimmers. More of this has been placed in my heart, by my own hand. I have spent several hours tonight inserting it inside, trying desperately to stop pain that throbs sharply, wishing I could take back words, take back feelings, or stop feelings entirely.

Yet it is to no avail. The pain lingers and grows, the hurt self-imposed seeping deeply. My only recourse is to shut doors, hide deeper, prevent myself from doing more damage. Yet doing this will cause myself more pain, keeping away from what has been a soothing balm. If only I could have found a way to stop feelings from growing to the point where they cannot wither and die, for they are unwanted, unrequited and completely unacceptable.

And so I hide, reclusive, deeper into shadows. Wishing I could hide from myself, but there is no place I can go that would accomplish this.

And to one I can but express sorrow for the need to hide, the need to disappear. Knowing the door was closed only by my own hand, for I have brought this to be and none other blamed. From the bottom of my heart, there are no words to convey the sorrow and even the words “I am so sorry” are trite. But I know of no others to use, except..

“Please forgive me?”