The Price Of Comfort…

Sometimes I wonder how can anyone stand it? How can anyone stand being pushed around by people who are complete assholes over and over again and not being able to fight back because you’re crippled on the floor unable to come up with something to shut them up? Sometimes even I wonder, how can I stand it?

How should I know?

I can’t anyway.

But that would be the life of every nerd…which basically means it’s also my life as well. To be pushed around and thought of as a freak because in many ways, we are as unfamilair to them as they are to us. Just one slight little problem though…

People like that outnumber us.

So raises the fact that we essentially grew up with the frustration and hate that comes with being the person always picked on and being picked the last. The good news is that for a lot of us, that frustration will be picked away later when the we get our own back with the knowledge and power that we have. The bad news is…

I’m not one of those people.

It just feels like I’m placed in a position where whatever I feel or do shouldn’t matter, because all it ends up with is making other people feel worse and hateful towards who I am. I keep forgetting that people don’t necessarily follow through what you believe in yourself. That your actions aren’t necessarily reflected on the reactions of others. It kills a little part of me everytime to realise that when people say they are there for you. That thought doesn’t help someone…that you actually have to get out there and show you care.

It’s something many say and a few do.

It’s something that many do oppositely anyway.

It’s something I usually get the bulk off to begin with.

All I just want is to stop trying to be hurt, stop showing that I am bleeding inside, stop giving a damn about how I feel. All that to be the person she can talk to without being sad and without finding herself feel guilty about the past she knows hurts her too. All that just to have her talk to me the way she always does…to have her place her metaphorical hand around the back of my neck and coo me into what’s right.

It’s bloody ironic and it’s costing a lot to keep it.

But to have but a shred of that, to believe that someone would actually have their hand out again to hold you when the chips are down.

Wouldn’t you go through hell just to have that?

Well…wouldn’t you?

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