It’s 5:30 am and I’m awake and I’m making promises I can’t keep. Maybe. Sometimes I think I’m subtle, you know? Sometimes I think that everything I say here is much too vague. Too vague and ambiguous for anyone to know what I’m talking about. Then I realise that some of you know me better than I know myself and you know exactly who and what I’m I’m talking about. And I guess subtlety was never my strong suit.
I do this thing a lot where I pretend that I don’t have feelings. When you jokingly insult my brother, he sometimes says – “Imagine if I had feelings.” I say that a lot too, except I mean it. Or I pretend to. If you were meeting me for the first time in real life, maybe you’d think I was off-the-cuff and I wasn’t too pushed about anything either way. I pretend that I don’t care what anyone thinks and I pretend that I’m the most selfish person on the planet. Which probably explains why people think I’m very selfish. I don’t know. I guess it’s that old cliché again – I just don’t want to get hurt. But I’m bored of that cliché.
I’m so in the habit of not having feelings. I know that there are a lot of people in this town who don’t like me because of things I’ve done or things I have failed to do. I should care, but mostly I don’t. So maybe I’m not pretending anymore. Or maybe I am pretending and it’s so convincing now that I actually believe myself. I believe myself. Maybe it’s like my psychotherapist said, maybe I just don’t take myself seriously.
Or maybe it’s 5:40 am and I’m confused and lonely and I don’t know what I want but I know it isn’t this. It isn’t any of this. I don’t want this guilt bearing down on me all day every day; I’ll just use it as an excuse to berate myself and look for attention. You know this. If you don’t, you’ll know soon. Maybe you don’t know me at all.
I miss my college friends. It’s only been a couple of days and already I miss Niall and Francis. I miss the simplicity and the very bizarre nature of our friendship. Spending time watching movies and reading library books is all well and good, and it’s reminiscent of a sixteen-year-old me, but it’s not the me now. It’s not me at all. Twenty-year-old Emma likes drinking and laughing and shouting and running around in the dead of night. I still like movies and books and the romantic life, but I want more: I want adventure. And no one here has enough time to give me.
And you reminding me of all the ways in which you were perfect and all the ways in which I was terrible – it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change the past and I doubt it will change the future. It doesn’t particularly change the present either. It just makes me feel awful. And I’ll take that Awful Feeling and I’ll run with it and I’ll indulge in it. That’s me being selfish. Maybe I want this pain, you know? Maybe I like being sad. Maybe H wasn’t wrong.
But I think everyone likes being sad on some level. It’s indulgent and romantic and dramatic. It takes a certain type of person to enjoy that kind of thing and I’m sure I could name five or six suspects off the top of my head. But whatever. I mean, don’t be embarrassed – sadness is beautiful, like everything else. My tattoo says, “There are no beautiful suicides,” not because I believe that, but because I want to convince myself of that. But I can’t help thinking that it’s the most romantic thing in the world. I guess that makes me an idiot. Or selfish. But we already know that to be true, don’t we?
I’m rambling. I just want things to make sense and they just don’t and I’m in all kinds of trouble. My brain hurts and I’m almost crying while watching Countdown and suddenly my life feels like it’s supposed to: I am exactly the type of person who would cry while watching Countdown at six in the morning.