In both senses, actually.
The first is being put into a situation where I just ramble on about everything that's bothering me or what have you to an audience that listens and doesn't interrupt. It could be because I've burst into tears in class, and I just say everything on my mind instead of being to scared and embarrassed to do so, or it could be some ridiculously convoluted situation where everyone I know, or would want to bear witness to this, including people who have never met me but I admire, and I have all been transported to a vast featureless space and I am held at gunpoint or some such and made to talk. Sometimes stripping is involved because, honestly, when you think about holding people at gunpoint, a lot of the time there's a question of that. And sometimes I'm a badass and take them out myself and am admired. And sometimes I'm a badass and take them out, but then collapse, trembling, to be comforted by a person of my choosing. And sometimes I don't. And I am pitied.
And then there's the other meaning. Just the image of a knife, splitting my skin open, down the middle. No pain. Feeling, but no pain. Sometimes guts are revealed, sometimes a glowing purple light emanates, and engulfs everything around it.
It's not sexual in nature. It's a need to be understood, comprehended on a deeper level. I realize it's a theme with me, and I'll probably keep returning to it. Sorry about that.
A large problem with me is that I'm conflicted, in very many ways. People learn by context. When I was young, I followed the rules. I was a model student, and learned about defiant, strong female protagonists from what I read. And then I learned about rebelling, and how it wasn't cool to be the way I was. You had to think for yourself. So I did that. But some of that turned out wrong. And some of it went off the rails. And nothing makes sense anymore. Not really. And I think this started out coherent, but it's quickly devolving. There are so many pressures. So many stresses pushing and pulling and I want to be compliant and just make people happy, make people like me. That's the problem. Making people like me. Everything I do is for that. And it probably shouldn't be. But it is. I take care of people because I want them to think of me favorably. I am self-deprecating because people will like me better that way. And while I'm objective, I know that I am pretty, and smart, and nice, and all sorts of things, but I've worked a lot of my insecurities into subjectivity and they just keep influencing me because of how much I imagine scenarios of people reading thoughts, and so now even my thoughts are aimed to please. Everything conflicts. I want to be a homebody, but I want to be an awesome, self-sufficient, kick-ass lady who doesn't do that girly-girl crap. I want to have a comfortable life and a good job, and see my friends on the weekends, and I want to be a star, and I want to be troubled and tortured because of how much people admire people who are troubled and tortured and I want to be alive and I want to be dead but not very much because I'm terribly afraid of not existing. I want a comfortable love that never goes away and I want a flame that is doomed but while it lasts is exciting and burns all who touch it and I'm afraid I'm being unfair and settling and I'm afraid that by thinking that I'm being unfair because I'm not.
My thoughts have run riot again. Mutiny will not be tolerated. I will lock them up, nice and neat as I always do, and get on with life. Because not having them that way is just a hindrance, and not helpful. And I'm dying on the inside, but objectively I know I'm just being melodramatic right now and I'll be fine in the morning.
Good night.
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