A perfect fuck up.

If we aren't careful, ghosts from the past take the opportunity to sneak up behind you, and curl their aged talons around you, wrapping it tighter with each passing day, and suffocating all traces of hard earned rationality that one worked so hard over the years to build up. 

It doesn't matter what people say. In my mind, I've always been neglected as a child. Ignored. Dismissed. Loved, but not mollycoddled because everyone thought I'm the strong one. The resilient one. The happy child. The intelligent kid. The street smart teen. The fighter. The survivor. 

Why can't anybody see that those are masks that I've had no choice but to put on. When I have such a dysfunctional family, there was no way I could let my problems add more fuel to the fire. But nobody ever asked me how I'm doing. How I'm coping. Whether I was okay. Whether I've ever had thoughts of... Stuff. I just feel so under the radar, like no amount of distress I felt would ever be justified sufficiently to mention to anyone. 

I think I'm constantly wishing someone would listen to me. Hear my silence. And understand what I'm going through. Instead, I'm going through life hiding my true feelings again, afraid of telling people what I'm feeling in case I trouble them or bother them. 

I'm not an altruistic saint. I'm a fuck up, just like so many other people who are allowed to fuck up. However, I just never feel like I'm allowed to fuck up. 

I don't want to wait till I fuck up bad enough to know that someone loves me for the fuck up that I am. I am not perfect, but I wish someone would tell me that they know that, and still love me regardless. 

This endless cycle of repetition is getting tiring. Go away ouroboros. You are not welcome in this roundabout.