Your windbreaker

We always assume we know what other people are doing. That they know what they are doing. Truly, this is always my indicator of evil. Of unforgivable. You’re doing bad things and you know it. What do I mean by bad? I wish I knew. Anything. Anything which causes harm or discomfort to another person. But I, we, you forget. Ignorance is commonplace. Ignorance is bliss.

“Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has.”

Reasons why I hate myself:

I don’t take up space. Physically, mentally, I’m always trying not to encroach. Why? Why don’t I stretch myself out and let everyone else clean up the mess. You can go around. I’ve been going around.

Once at an airport, I handed my boarding pass to the gate employee. She took it, scanned it, looked at me, “enjoy your flight, Alaina.” I looked at her, said nothing, took my boarding pass, walked on. I think about her a lot. She took the time to read and pronounce my name. I couldn’t bear the moment to smile or nod or say, “thank you.” All the people in the day that probably ignore her, and I was another tally on the list. I can’t remember the swarm that was buzzing in my head that day, as I was transferring cities, transferring mindsets, transferring emotions, but I do remember that woman and how I failed her. Couldn’t lean outside of myself for one second.
I look fine and smooth on the outside but my insides look like crumpled newspaper. Like kindle/tinder (these words have other meanings now) for a fire.

My friends have been asking me if I’m okay, and I say, no, not really. I laugh at myself because I am the source of all my discontent. I am the error in my ways.
I always doubt myself. There’s a wise me and a little me. And the wise me is always laying out the path for little me. Watch for this, listen to this, remember this. Look at this. But little me gets antsy. “I know you know, wise one, but let me try it for myself.” And then wise one has to come back and pick up the pieces after the fall and say, “what did I tell you.”

“Pride comes before the fall,” Little one doesn’t say.

I doubt myself even when I know what I’m doing is right. The worse bit is that I have to document this. I have to write down what I’m doing and how I’m doubting and all the reasons I shouldn’t doubt myself, so that when it happens the next time I can turn back and look and say, see, shut up. Don’t doubt yourself. You know you’re right. Like Kurt Cobain, you know you’re right.

But then why why why my brain surges and falls I don’t know. I have to sleep, I have to read, I have to run to block it all out. Put put put. My feet on the pavement and the jolt up my spine to the back of my neck and the steady of my breathing all to make the doubt dim. Go away go away. I hate this about myself.

I don’t know what this curse is that I have to consider every decision from every angle. That I have to consider every third party from every angle. That I have to present every possible scenario to myself until I’ve worn it thin. As thin as the skin on the inside of my lip. As thin as the blister I rub on my heels.

What am I so afraid of? Of being wrong. Of being blind-sided. Of being somebody’s fool. But no one thinks through their actions like I do. I don’t even think through my actions like I do. I act on a whim, mostly. And then wonder what the hell is wrong with my whims. Why is it so hard for me to assume this about everyone else? If only I knew. Why can’t I let us live in peace? If only I knew.

My mind is my hardest fight. My daily task. My attitude sucks.


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