The first person who ever told me they loved me, lied.
I feel like that happens to most people. Maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know. I’ve always been too afraid to ask.
I’ve been too afraid to ask a lot of things lately, and by lately I mean my entire life.
‘Love having @#@@^ in class, wish she would participate more, though’, is what the teacher’s notes would always say.
Too afraid to ask what that word means, or how to work this problem, or what the %&^^ two percent milk means, or how did you two meet, or do you still love each other?
Am I aloud to write %&^^ in a blog post? I’m too afraid to ask.
I don’t look afraid. I make people afraid, though.
Or at least, that is what I’m told. Chances are, I’m more afraid of you than you are of me.
Like a spider.
Maybe that’s why I like spiders so much?
I mean, technically I have arachnophobia, but I’m not afraid of spiders.
I’m afraid of Ticks. And needles,
but only sometimes.
Only when they’re taking my blood.
Its not like I’m afraid of blood.I just don’t like it when something takes my blood.
Maybe its because I was killed by a vampire in a past life? That might explain why I think vampires are overrated.
But, I don’t believe in past lives.
Or anything really.
But that is not my point.
At least, not right now.
My point is that the first person who ever told me they loved me, lied.
I told him I loved him too, which was also a lie.
But, that is not the point.
Because, whether I lied or not, I was not the first person to tell him ‘I love you’. I know because I heard others tell him they loved him and he told them he loved them too.
I never confronted him about it.
I wonder if he lied to them as well, or if I was just special?
Special in the worst way possible.
I don’t care whether he meant it with them or not. I’m long over wondering why I wasn’t good enough to be his only one.
To be honest, I never really cared that much in the first place.
To be honest, I barely even liked him.
But I never really got over how he called me boring.
Or how he called me ugly.
Or how he complained about me not talking enough, only to turn around and tell me he didn’t care about my ‘sob stories’ the moment I opened up.
I think about how he called me boring every time I think about saying ‘No’.
I think about how he called me ugly every time I put on makeup.
I think about how he called me a ‘sob story’ every time I speak.
Every now and then,
I think back to that one time he told me that I am going to die alone, broke, and homeless
and wonder if those words somehow cursed me?
I don’t believe in god, yet I believe every word he said.
Pretty crazy, right?
He didn’t love me.
I didn’t love him.
But that is not the point.
The point is that his words still effect my everyday life,
while my words were never given a second thought.
Its always seemed pretty wild to me that someone can effect someone else so much,
but the person who is doing the effecting will never be effected in return.
I often wonder if this is all the reason why I only care for those who don’t care for me back?
Everything they do effects me so much, yet everything I do hardly effects them at all.
I wonder if it started with him or if it runs back even earlier than that?
Maybe requited love killed me in a past life?
Who knows?
I’m too afraid to ask.
