Hello. I’m writing this while having a light anxiety attack.
My body is shivering at this moment. And it’s not because it’s zero degrees outside, or because there has been snow falling since 2 pm.
I’m shaking because I’m scared of hurtful people. They aren’t around me, but they are out there and they are near me. They’re real and they exist. I can see them. From my window. On the streets. In the bus. At my phone. They are everywhere.
They don’t have a mark to recognise them. They wear leather jackets and red scarfs, their hair is blond or black or brown, and sometimes it’s blue or red. The mean people like applepie and are vegetarian. They also enjoy steak and chicken. The mean people like football and fishing, and make-up and clothes. The mean people are hidden between the good people. The mean people are like good people.
And the mean people aren’t mean. They’re nice. To the people they like.
They aren’t mean to the people they like.
Mean people aren’t deliberately mean. It’s a bad habit or maybe it’s in their characteristics. Mean people tend to get close to you and as they get to know who you truly are, they win all your trust and they break you. Some prefer to do it slowly, piece by piece. Others would rather see it all fall down at once. They say hurtful things. In your face or behind your back. They make jokes about you. They share your secrets with others.
The hard part about it? Acting like it’s okay. Because it’s not. Eventually, you’ll tell them that it hurts. You’ll open up about your wounds, and they will only sprinkle salt on them. And you’ll tell yourself you’re used to it but you’re not. And you never will. Because each time you’ll fall for it again. Each time it will hurt in a unique way.
And you won’t forget any of these times. And you won’t forget the memories and conversations with any of these people. Their laugh and their language.
Yeah. Mean people are scary. And they stop me from letting other people in. Because no matter how much time, energy and love i’ll put into someone, it’s useless when you put it in the wrong person.
I’ll never recognise mean people with my blind eyes. I’ll never know if it’s worth a shot or not.
Maybe that’s why i’m shaking. Or perhaps because it’s cold.