I am a scar.

Per usual life continues to throw boulders at me. At a time when a normal person would reach out and grasp for her nearest friends, I have chosen to seclude myself. It is most definitely intentional. Through out my life I have allowed myself to become dependent on others to maintain my sanity and happiness, as a result when said people leave, disappoint me, hurt me, or unintentionally anger me, my sanity and happiness are whisked away just as quickly.

Solitude will surely do one thing for you:
Force you to evaluate your life.

I am a thinker. By nature I question everything around me; why clouds are shaped the way they are, why certain horrible acts are committed against me, why I make bad decisions, why it seems I can't find love, why I woke up every hour and twelve minutes, why my stomach jumps into my throat when I see him. Imagine all of these thoughts at once (plus more that I won't bore you with). What would YOU do? Me? I shut down. Turn off the Dianna switch and go through the motions of life, suffering in silence.

It's not the ideal way to manage a crisis, let alone more than one. The one thought that seems to overwhelm me during this shut down time is; will it really matter? The "crisis." Is it really going to matter five years from now? My problem with this is that I only tie myself to people if they truly matter to me. I don't invest time into people or with people unless I feel that five years from now they WILL matter in my life. The trouble with being an adult is that we are forced to realize that some whom we've tied ourselves to do not reciprocate the feeling.

I have become expendable to those around me. I am a momentary high. I can't blame them though, I'm a pretty interesting person. My life is colored with hues of tragedy and I appear unscathed. It's when they are finally able to see me open and uncovered that the scars of my wars can be felt. Because that's what scars are. Wounds that have healed, but forever leave their mark. I suppose I am one large scar, walking through life healing people of their curiosity.

The most difficult part of this realization is finding a coping mechanism that allows me to still give pieces of myself with out feeling as though they have been stolen from me. I suppose my first mistake is being a giving person. I love others the way that I want to be loved, in their own language. I adjust to each person to love and care for them according to what they need. In this process as soon as that person leaves (especially without reciprocating the gesture) I feel robbed. Selfishly I feel robbed of a love that I know I deserve and at the same time robbed of a love that I will never know. Curiosity sets in and I chase.

When it comes to love I have no pride. I will sacrifice myself to the altar of cupid and allow him to shoot so many arrows at me that my wounds start to blend in with one another and I am just one bleeding carcass of love, hand outstretched waiting for someone to hold it again and kiss my knuckles.

I suppose that's where I'm at. I'm a bloody carcass. Gross, I know. But that's the way my brain works. I see beauty in damaged and broken (wild) things. I have to, after all, that's all I am. A once damaged and broken wild thing, just wanting to be loved.