Boxed In

It rises my chest and makes me want to jump and run away at the same time. I feel the pressure growing as it races up my spine.  I wish that I could just do what I want and write how I want. Why do I need a platform, or any form for that matter? People can understand blunt words, and though they cause conflict, at least they’re something. Why do people expect others to always be ok? It’s not fair. So limiting. Take off all those restraints and labels that others tell you you have. I don’t need to publish this but I will anyway because I need people to know and understand that sometimes I’m not ok. Ok?

I’m not strong enough to admit that I don’t know anything about my calling. I might have an idea but how can I be sure I’m right? How can I be sure that I’m doing the right thing? There isn’t any way. People aren’t going to like me. I’m going to fail. Why me?

This message is so tangled up and nasty that I just want to scream. If you wanted someone to just pretend and write the way they’re supposed to, then you’ve come to the wrong place. I hate barriers that tell us there is only one way. There can’t be. I won’t bend to your rules; I won’t be defined by your game. If it’s my lot to be constantly hurt, so that all that’s left is a broken shell with a hurt crab inside who wants to care about people, but keeps getting shut down, so be it. I’m done trying to be who others define me to be.

How can they even do that for me when even my closest friends don’t know what’s inside of me? How can they expect me to be who I’m not? I can’t be that way anymore. Yet every time I start writing again, I get stuck. Because so many people have tried to shove me into labels that I have learned to do it to myself. If this is what it means to have a voice, then I don’t want it. I don’t want to be in a box.

I don’t want to be defined by words. I’ve been there, ok? I know what it’s like to be that way. Don’t make me. I don’t want it. Please don’t make me. I want to be myself, but my true self is hidden behind these labels. Labels that don’t want to let it out because they don’t want that pureness to be corrupted. Do you get it? Do you understand? Words are the best and worst thing that happened to me because words warped me as others tried to put me in a box. It’s like trying to fight with bedsheets that are too tight. Every time I get close to breaking through, something shoves me back in, and I’m stuck and helpless again.

It’s not fair… why did it have to happen? Why does my passion have to be infused with my enemy and, I believe, my purpose? Why, when nothing’s wrong or seemingly that way, do I have all these barriers I can’t break through? I get moments when, through the haze, I can see it, but then the box closes again and I’m aimlessly wandering through cold dark blackness. I just want to be a writer, is that too much to ask?

 

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