The Guilt Of Just Existing.

I believe in myself
When I believe I am loved.
Which is hardly ever.
I exist for other people
Never for myself.
I disappear when nobody is here.
I cease to exist.
Then I want to cease to exist.
It’s not real happiness
Unless someone allows me to have it.
Nobody is here now,
I’ve not earned it from anyone,
So I don’t deserve it.
This is fake
It doesn’t matter.
This happiness that I gave myself
It doesn’t matter.
I’m still living for you.
All of you.
Living for people to be happy with me.
Everybody
But not me.
Standards I don’t even know.
And never will.
The constant disappointment that I am.
Thank you for that.
Gift
You have bestowed upon me.
The guilt of just existing.

I’m living through what I perceive to be 
Other people’s experiences of me.
Other people’s view of me.
Not mine.
I dare not perceive myself
In case it upsets anyone.
I don’t believe myself
When I tell myself I’m creative,
Or intelligent.
I don’t believe myself
When I tell myself I get to be happy.
It always feels like I stole it.
It’s wrong.

I do believe
I’m inconvenient.
I do believe
I’m not what you need right now.
I’m not your preferred mood.
I’m not your preferred ear.
I’m not rich and therefore not worthy.
I talk a lot.
Too much.
I’m too weird.
I don’t know what I’m talking about.
I’m still just a child.
I understand nothing.
I’m not smart like you want me to be.
I’m not strong like you hoped me to be.
I’m embarrassing.
I’m weird.
Just hide me away,
Or put me on show,
I’ll make you laugh,
Not because I’m funny
But because… I’m funny.
I’m weird.

I’ve tried so hard
To believe in myself.
But it’s so difficult
Fighting through
All those things
You said to my face
Over and over.
I’ve done the work,
I’ve pulled myself through.
But now
I’m not enough
Of what you wanted from me.
I’m too much
Of what I’m growing into
Because of the therapy
You sent me to,
And you hate it
Because you’re stuck 
On that other version of me.
The one that still holds 
The hope for your own future.
The extension of you.
The one who’d drop everything.
The easy one you could hide.
Lie to.
Laugh at.
And forget for a while.

And I still feel guilty about 
Upsetting you.
I feel selfish 
For simply trying to make myself comfortable
In waking up.
Your discomfort in my happiness
Drowns me
Every time.
You trained me so well
To be small.
I am tired of
Upsetting you either way.
Feeling guilty either way.

Why should I 
Be shamed into hating myself,
Just for being different?
For daring to have ideas.
That’s your voice in there.
Not mine.
Existing outside of anything
You tried to force me into
Was such a fucking embarrassment to you.
Why should I shrink myself down,
And be palatable
For you?
I’m so uncomfortably
Contorted
Reaching for your version of me.

I don’t want to
Wait for you
To tell me 
Yes.
I get to paint.
I get to write.
I get to just
Express myself.
I know what I’m fucking talking about.
I would like to dismiss
This fear of me being myself 
That you induce,
And lean in to myself.
I would like to 
Exist in moments of happiness 
I have given myself.
I would like to believe in myself
So fiercely,
That your rejection
Actually does mean nothing.
And I don’t hold onto it
As if that were the key
To your acceptance of me.
When really
If I chased your idea of me,

I would only reject myself more.
– Essie Parker Walsh