Lost Love Lust

Today, I started packing once more. Definitely not the first time now is it.

Only god knows how many times I’ve gone through this, and by now you would think I’m immune.

Perhaps “mature” enough to not be affected by the fear of the new, but no, still affected am I.

Some of the people in my life that I truly respect have told me on numerous occasions that I am the strongest soul they know.

Well, I appreciate the compliment, but even Goliaths get splinters. 

Just the simple sight of that empty cardboard box made me break down in tears.

Perhaps the way I was raised is at fault, but even when something does bother me, I shun it away, I don’t wallow in it, and I don’t let it affect me.

I “hide” it somewhere well and don’t touch on it for as long as I can.

It’s been almost 8 years since I last felt this feeling.

To be honest, I’m so fucking sick of this moving shit.

So sick.

Starting over?

How many times must I start and start over?

Moving is much like playing a board game, you are at the start line, and at one point a card is handed to you that says “‘Move two spaces forward”, so you do, you end up on the “Romania” square for a while, and then you get another card; “Finish High School” and another and so on, until at one point, you get the card you’ve been dreading.

“Go back to start.”

And all your so-called “progress” in the game is as if it never existed.

And imagine not even being able to show frustration.

That is how it was and always is with my parents, I could never say “hey, i’m affected by this.” because they would say “you don’t have any problems, you’re just making up problems for yourself.”

And to a certain extent they were right, that not all my problems were nearly as bad as theirs, but at the same time, mine were treated as if they didn’t even exist to begin with.

I could NEVER talk to them and tell them what bothered me without walking away frustrated and shunned.

And although this helped make me strong, every now and then I have a moment where someone actually opens my eyes to what is actually going on, and I can no longer look at it as ”you don’t have problems, you just make problems for yourself.”

I feel, and I hurt, and even if to some I am tough as a rock, the past still hurts and my fears still exist.

Before every move, I would sit in the room that was mine and stare through the window, wondering if this move would be the last one, and if maybe finally I’d find what I was looking for.

Today is no different than those days.

An empty box, a grim view out the window, and a box of tissues.

Maybe this is the last time.

Maybe.