I am not whiny. Sharing is not whining. Whining is a repeated lament which demands more space than what is warranted. Sharing is an offering, be it joy or pain, whimsy or misery. I have much misery to share, but I have always found value in the honesty and candour of others, so why wouldn’t mine have similar value to others? Why should I beany less?
We are taught to be very reactive to shows of confidence and displays of self-worth. We are taught to distrust them and knock them down, especially if displayed by women. We are taught to allow egotistical shows of power and self-indulgence and confuse them with true courage or strength. I have internalized the world so well, so deeply, that my own values are bound, seemingly irrevocably, with those I despise. What is left of me?
I feel so drained of vitality, of human feeling. I feel like an open wound pulsing red and raw, hot with the shame of exposure, waiting to succumb to infection. I feel like a corpse covered in lead powder and perfume, playing the part to a room of fools who can no longer tell the difference between living and dead. I feel sad that I can only discover my true self in writing, and otherwise fool myself with the aforementioned deceits.
I feel robbed of everything. I am fighting to rebuild.