Proclaiming that you don’t care about anything and are dead inside and don’t give a shit about anything is easy.

It’s quick and dismissive and could even seem sickly romantic if it weren’t so trite given the pervasiveness of the general attitude splayed across t-shirts and text-based forms of communication.

What’s difficult is sharing the fact that you do actually care.

You care a whole fucking lot about everything and everyone, so much so that it causes the kind of emotional churning that gently requests that you pretend that it doesn’t exist, no matter how feeble and transparent your learned and gradually practiced, reactionary defenses are.

Look.

I really have always hated using “I” as opposed to a more universal and inclusive “you” when writing anything.

But over the past year I’ve realized that it’s downright silly - to put it lightly - to play at not caring. I care a lot. I care a whole goddamn bunch and it makes me very skiddish and afraid of dissapointing people. Because I do care. And I do not want to be horrible. I do not want to be a villain. The illusion of the dark and evil and villanoius as something to aspire to has gone from me.

There’s value in talking about stuff and feelings for the sake of talking about it - with no ulterior motives. Not for some kind of pity part contest, not for some kind of general ego-fishing or reinforcement of an artificial sense of self, bolstered by equally misguided methods of communication and strange underhanded subtext.

It’s fruitless and empty.

There’s freedom in leveling with safe people and being candid. You have to say what you mean and mean what you say, all the while giving the benefit of the doubt to others, in that there is the hope that they too only really want to be able to share what they may without fear.

It takes removing that fear to really begin the process of being okay.

And it’s okay to be okay.

I mean let’s not get ahead of ourselves I’m still a goddamn mess but less of a disaster than before, and that’s something. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say it’s okay to be a clusterfuck of “I have no idea what I am doing I probably need an adult” as much as it is okay to say “I’m not that much better at goddamn all but I’m at least not actively trying to make things worse or ruin lives”.



Honestly it’s a whole lot more comforting (and fun) to look forward to being okay - while recognizing and accepting that it’ll probably take a while - than it is to hope upon wicked hopes that you’re worse off than the person next to you.

And even when you take that one step forward and seemingly sixty-two steps back, it’s alright. Fucking up is normal. It happens. What matters is how you progress and learn from it all.



Being okay doesn’t make you any more uninteresting than how being messed up has been romanticized into seeming as though it would make you moreso.

Like dude come on we can’t all live in our middle school vampire fanfiction forever.

