secret

I try to convince myself that I'm not desolate. I am unhappy. I am unhappy with myself. I didn't expect this kind of hurting- this mute kind of terrorizing hurt. My personality according to Myers-Briggs is only 1% of the population, and I have always felt this...I have always intrinsically felt so different from my friends and from the world, and I have hated myself for it. I don't often realize that my rare personality is good. It doesn't feel good. I don't like the way that I interpret the world or the way I interact with it. I don't like the way that I am always pulling back, always holding back, always mistrusting, always intending to avoid calamity in any possible way. I don't like the way I hide from everything. The secrets give me only a false sense of security, in that keeping them causes me to feel even more isolated.

I'm sitting here, feeling so much deep down in there, but I can't seem to draw it out. The music just sounds like noise to me, and isn't calling me out of myself like it normally does. Pain adds weight to my feelings, and they consequently sink in deep and writhe in their dark namelessness. The writhing is the restlessness I feel. Nothing makes it better.

I want to pick up my pen and write down hope. But there is only the date at the top of the page, and nothing more. There is so much more than I can write down here or there- so many things inside me that I can't write down in words, in letters, in spaces and breaths and cursor blinks. I cannot bear my soul to anyone. I'm afraid I will be alone all my life, just trying to make life work- trying to make myself work the way I wish I worked. I'm beyond being salvaged by a group of my peers. They are imperfect too. They are broken too. I need Jesus, despite how often I try to hide myself from Him.

Please...please...