You

You look at me as though I have all the answers. Like I’m some kind of saviour here to fix all of your problems.

You look at me with eyes of despair that tear me up inside because I cannot read your mind, but I can feel the pain in your eyes.

You tell me I don’t say the right things. You tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about and yet you come to me with questions asking for help.

You tell me I’m insensitive. That I’m only thinking of myself. Yet, when I help others, you tell me to stand up for myself or put myself first.

You tell me I’m inspiring for everything I do yet you ignore the pain and hard work that make the things I’m doing a success. You miss the hard years, the agony, the heart break, everything that has made me who I am at this very moment.

You look at me as though I have no understanding of what you’re going through. How could I? I’m not you. Yet, you look at me as though I should know exactly what to say and do.

You tell me I’m not good enough. Not in those words but in every other word you say to me.

You tell me it’s not me. It’s you. So, talk to me. What is it about you that is so wrong with me?

You tell me of all the kind things you do for others and the help you provide yet my name is never one that leaves your mouth. Do I not deserve your help as well?

You mutter words of despair. As though the world around you is crumbling without hope. I see hope and happiness everywhere and I don’t know how to help you see this.

You look at me like I’m crazy for believing there is so much good out there. I look at you like you’re crazy for only looking at the bad. I wish I knew how to help you see what I see.

You look toward me for inspiration on how to act and behave. I’m honoured but I don’t want you to be me. I want you to inspire me with your own greatness within you. Be you.

You look to me as though I’m the world’s biggest idiot. I look in the mirror and wonder why I ever spoke.

You look at me like I’m hilarious. I realise I have a voice that needs to be heard and sometimes, within the gibberish I speak, there’s wisdom and wonder that makes waves. I wonder why I don’t speak up more.

You talk to me like a child then seek guidance from me as if I were your parent. Am I one or the other? Neither. I am no child nor a parent. Get your own.

You look to me for friendship. That will always be here. I will always be here.

You look to me for compassion and sympathy. I’ll provide you empathy, a shoulder to cry on and try to understand things from your perspective. I will never know exactly what you’re going through but I will always be here.

You look to me as though I disappeared. That I say I’ll always be here and then I’m not. Yet, you don’t ask why. I look at the zero missed phone calls and wonder where the reciprocated friendship comes in.

As weeks turn to months, you talk about missing me and my company. What is it you miss the most? Tell me. I miss me sometimes too.

You tell me nothing but say a lot of words. I want to hear truth, honesty and what you really think and feel. I’m not interested in the weather.

You yell at me, accusing me of things I didn’t do. Meanwhile, I’m struggling to hold everything together and barely surviving as I’ve recently gone through an impeccable amount of loss and change. But, how would you know. You’re upset and in your own head.

You tell me I’m not even thinking about anyone other than myself. I’m wondering when anyone will care to ask how I’m doing.

You’re wondering if this is about you. I’m wondering if you’ll ever actually get it.

It’s never about you.

 

What would you add to this list? Does any of this feel familiar?

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