wabi wabi

Sometimes I don’t know what to say.

Or what to do. Or which way to go.

My head tells me to do that thing: to cross the street and leave all this behind. And then my stupid heart just lingers, falters, waits. I must be an optimist deep down inside. Or just a fool.

You see, I’m a bit of a chump. Actually, I know I am. I remain naive after all these years of adulthood. I trust easily. I forgive easily. And I’m a doormat.

When I lie awake in bed at night, my heart often pumps hysterically. Sometimes I cry. I’ve realised that I feel angry just about all the time, which can’t be healthy — and definitely is not helping me sleep.

I don’t want to be angry any more. I think that means that I don’t want to be this person any more either. You know, the person who works energetically and honestly and then doesn’t get paid. The person who drives 300km each week to maintain a friendship or relationship. Who invites herself over because the invitation never comes, and who brings cake, too, because she feels bad that someone will have to suffer through the imposition of her company. The person who asks, “How are you?”, who never forgets birthdays, holidays, or anniversaries. The person who buys gifts just because. The person who sends the big e-mail. The person who texts, Twitters, or Facebooks a message. The peson who asks. The person who replies. The person who hugs first, kisses first, thanks first, apologises first, and forgives first. The one who bends over backwards, goes out of her way, goes the extra mile. And goes home empty-handed.

Every time I foot the bill for something and people promise to pay me back and don’t — it hurts. Every time I make a huge effort to keep a date when I feel unwell myself and then somebody else pikes because they’re tired or they didn’t plan their day well — it hurts. Every time somebody tells me that they’re busy and then plasters the Internet with pictures of themselves hanging out with other friends — it hurts.

I know it hurts because I do things like cry all the way home after an anticlimactic visit to Brisbane. Because I get a lump in my throat when a reply I’ve been expecting never comes.

The thing I hate most is the “busy-ness”. There’s always that assumption that your life and your time is somehow more precious, more meaningful, more valid, or more important than mine. You know what? I’ve been busy. And it never made me rude or arrogant.

I have worked full-time and studied part-time; I have studied part-time and worked full-time… all the while juggling personal projects, family commitments, chronic illness and pain, myriad appointments, and the assortment of social engagements that arise as you get older: engagements, weddings, kitchen teas, bridal showers, baby showers, work dinners, uni dinners, elaborately themed costume parties (how many people will I alienate by confessing my hatred of themed parties?). I did my job well and got excellent grades. I’ve been so busy that my body has literally broken on several occasions.

I was never mean.

Oh, I am so tired of trying.

I know that I am uncool in an epic sort of way. If you’re looking for additional evidence, try a) my attire at this very moment (underpants and Canterbury jersey from my senior high school year — embarrassingly old now), b) my extensive iTunes library, or c) the shelf in my bookcase devoted entirely to magazines that I can’t help but buy, arranged by the colour of their spines. I know that I talk too much, say too much, and quote too regularly from song lyrics and obscure poetry (hello, Adele, in this post’s title). I’m sensitive. I doubt myself.

But I don’t deserve to be the chump any more.

I’m not a bad person.

I think — all the time – that I should just call people out on their bad behaviour. But I’m afraid. I’m afraid that they will cut ties with me altogether. People don’t like criticism. People don’t like to face themselves in the mirror and acknowledge that they are, in fact, an asshole. I mean, I certainly don’t. However, I have done my share of soul-searching and I’ve received my punishment and I have paid my dues.

I have paid my dues ten times over. Whatever my crime was, in the last few years, I have been punished well and truly. Thoroughly. Totally. I have endured endless rejections. I have taken the fall for things that were not all my fault. I have been deleted, unfollowed, ignored. Hung-up on. Dumped. Uninvited. Gossiped about. Humiliated.

I have accepted financial penalty with my mouth closed. I have apologised when I should have been apologised to. I have blinked back tears when I’ve noticed my gifts in the bin or mysteriously absent from a shelf or a couch.

So I think, Amber, what have you got to lose? You are already lonely and miserable so much of the time. Yes, lonely. For the first time in your life you feel lonely. Surely if you’re brave and you finally tell someone that they’re being horrible to you and they can’t handle it and they bugger off completely, you haven’t really lost anything anyway. Right?

Well, I don’t completely believe it.

Audrey Hepburn once said: “”People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed. Never throw out anyone.”

That’s what I believe in.

Being anyone other than the chump that I am feels to me like playing a game. I can’t be the person who ignores, who holds grudges, who snaps, or who forgets about special things. I don’t know where this leaves me. Lying angrily in bed at night or sobbing for hours in the car presumably.

Sometimes I don’t know what to say. Or what to do. Or which way to go.