Why not post it? Feminism's warm again.

I'm so tired of people trying to correlate thinking of death with being deep. Ooh, I was driving, then I thought that I could get hit and that would be the end of it. Death isn't deep. I mean, in a Six Feet Under way, sure, death is this big thing that occurs around us, and when we truly examine it, not only is it a part of life (despite how silly that sounds), but it's not always a tragedy. Sometimes it's better when the death finally occurs. Sometimes it's better for the pain and chaos and madness to stop and the healing to begin. Other times, there are people that the world is better off without.

But let's not talk about them. And wouldn't it be nice if the first time I came here to post in oh so long wasn't talking about those with whom I'm annoyed? Well, sorry. I'm annoyed with people in their privileged little lives thinking that as they drive around in their big, fancy cars that the thought of getting hit and it all ending makes them deep.

I was talking to a daily person in my life the other day and the subject turned to money. I have this other knowledge of a world where money problems mean not having a boat. It's difficult and different because I also have knowledge of the world where money problems meant it was good that I was so sick because I couldn't afford food anyway, and I've promised myself to never again buy that big box of corn flakes, because even though I did, it's nothing off of which to live.

Often when I'm just trying to open up, I feel like I'm complaining about the life that I have and have had, but isn't there a way to say that shit's hard without saying I hate it? Or isn't there a way to say that shit's been hard, but it's mostly better now, and I'm not trying to lay out a trump card on your bad experiences, or be a downer, I'm just trying to be honest?

I don't know. I put these rules on myself. I don't allow myself to speak for fear of reactions, because staying silent is better. I sometimes wish I didn't know that. Because now, here I am, on my blog, chastising myself for complaining again. Maybe it's all about my own attitude on it. But, to me, if I was out there as a happy reader, Oh Shut Up Silence Is Better. But there are those of you out there, aren't there? Who know what I mean? Who understand the darkness inside and are hoping to simply find someone to look into the void with them, but hold their hand just close enough to keep them from losing sight of the light altogether.

I'm tired of everything being a sad story from childhood.

Were you in the girl scouts?
Yeah, I hated it. My mom made me stay in it for a really long time even though I wanted to quit. And then she lied and signed off on all of the badges because that one time I'd done that one thing and she made me sit on her bed with her as she justified it all to me, justified how her daughter has the most badges, and is a girl scout, and that means she's the best mom, see? See? So I walked into my new troop meeting, that weird girl with no friends anyway, with my circular, embroidered lies colorfully displayed across my chest. I may have been unhappy, but what's that matter when my mom can brag I have the most badges?

I tell those stories, those uncomfortable over-shares that change the subject from if you prefer your thin mints frozen or at room temp, because those are the good ones. Because my therapist says I should try to talk about my past with my friends. Because who cared if I had friends then anyway? They couldn't have changed anything or made it better. I have friends now, and I had soccer then. I had a soccer ball, and a dog who would play with me in the backyard, and Marla who did have a boat. I wasn't allowed to listen to the radio really, or go anywhere if there were going to be boys there too, but I never got invited, so I'd just go to practice and come home and do my homework.

When the good stories are the uncomfortable overshares, then yes, silence usually is better. I get mad with people who think thoughts on death are deep, because I've lived through death being a relief, and yeah, his still would be. And no, I don't want to talk about it. See above.

I'm tired to trying to explain myself, but I want to be understood. I'm tired of telling my stories, but I want to be known. I'm tired of trying again, but I want to remember trust. I'm tired, and I still want to be loved.