Tell an adult?
Sometimes i think about how, as a child, you’re told "go tell an adult."
I used to believe that meant something. that there would always be a person who could step in, who would take it seriously, who would know the difference between something uncomfortable and something wrong
but I’m in my twenties now and i keep running into the same problem. there is no adult. it’s just me.
and the weird part is that being the adult doesn’t make you more believable. it just makes you more responsible. people don’t ask what happened, they ask why. they don’t ask if you were scared, they ask what you did about it. they don’t ask if you froze, they ask why you didn’t leave.
I don’t even know what I would say if i tried to explain it. i don’t know what words i’m allowed to use. i don’t know what counts as “bad enough” for people to take seriously. i don’t know how you’re supposed to talk about something when you don’t have clean sentences for it
and I hate that i still have the instinct to want someone older to notice. like i’m still waiting for a grown up to walk in and tell me what to do
but it doesn’t feel normal either
because i know what people would say. they would say i’m an adult. they would say i should know better. they would say i could just leave. and i don’t know how to explain that sometimes you can’t. sometimes you can, technically, but it doesn’t feel like you can. and that sounds stupid when i write it down, but it’s true.
and they would say i’m thinking in circles again. he would say i’m letting fear make a story out of nothing. he would say i need to stop trying to label everything and just focus on what i’m being taught. and part of me believes him because he’s usually right about everything else. he always sounds so sure. like he’s already decided what things mean.
and I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that i doubt myself, or the fact that i’m starting to prefer it. i’m starting to prefer when someone else decides what things mean. it’s easier and it makes my head quiet.
I keep thinking maybe i just don’t understand what love looks like when it isn’t soft. maybe this is what it’s supposed to be like. maybe things are supposed to feel uncomfortable sometimes, maybe i’m supposed to feel small. maybe i’m supposed to stop trying to be in control of everything. I don’t know. i don’t know anything, I can't pretend i do.
sometimes i feel like i’m watching myself from far away. As if i’m nodding along and agreeing and doing the right thing, and somewhere else in my head there’s a voice trying to get my attention, and i keep pushing it down because it’s easier not to hear it. because if i hear it, i have to do something. and i don’t even know what “do something” means
I keep thinking about telling someone. and then i think about how i would sound. and i think about how i would have to prove it. and i think about how i would have to explain it in a way that makes sense to strangers. and i can’t. i can’t even explain it to myself without immediately feeling guilty
and then i think, maybe i’m the problem. maybe i’m ungrateful. maybe i ruin everything by being too sensitive, too emotional, too online, too much. maybe i’m lucky anyone is even trying to help me. maybe i deserve less softness than other people
i don’t know
I just wish i wasn’t the one who has to decide what this is. i wish someone would tell me what it is. i wish someone would tell me what it means. i wish someone would tell me what i’m allowed to call it.