Do I know what it is and I'm afraid to say it? Let's have a heart to heart. But what if my heart isn't in it? My heart seems to be lost. Not sure where it is. I think it's been trampled. It feels like it's in my stomach.
I know I should have something to say, but what I say sounds weak and isn't what you want to hear. I don't know why I am the way I am. I just am. I'm me. I'm sorry I can't explain it. "I'm tired", "I'm stressed", "I'm worn down" are repetitive and annoying and unhelpful and useless. But they're all true. They're too true. I don't know why. I can't explain it. I know if I can't explain it no one can.
I have butterflies in my chest and in my arm. This is how anxiety starts. I'm anxious because I can't do everything. I know my "everything" isn't nearly as much as everyone else's "everything", but mine overwhelms me. I'm not lazy. Feeling overwhelmed leads to anxiety and that leads to feeling powerless and that leads to being frozen and unable to do anything. I know it needs doing. It's not that I don't know.
But that's not your concern is it? Your concern is how it affects you. Most people's concern. My inability to be all leads to being nothing. My being nothing leaves you with nothing. I'm sorry I have nothing for you. I blame myself...cause that's healthy and leads to more anxiety.
But you want yours. Everyone gets a little piece and yours is the smallest. Well, it's the smallest next to what's left for me. I know it's not fair that you're at the bottom of the totem pole. I know where you think you should be. But you're not. I'm sorry you're not. So I'll be anxious about that too. Cause that's healthy.
So you come to me and you want to know what's inside and I can't tell you what's inside because I'm not sure I know myself. I know the surface. I don't know what's the cause. But your being disappointed with what I come up with is less than helpful. Oh to be you. Don't concern yourself with the little things. It's fine to leave wrappers on the bar, or socks on the floor or all the other nit picky things that build up and bug me and make me feel unappreciated. No, not unappreciated, disrespected.
I know everything you do is more important than what I do. Believe me. You pay no attention when I'm talking but expect my immediate, undivided attention when you inhale to speak. And you wonder why I don't speak very much. Why can't we have a conversation? Because you're pretty good at having one without me.
So what does any of this have to do with anything? Everything. Nothing. It's small. It's insignificant. It's so trivial.