“It’s cold...”

So there’s this thing for Juniors and Seniors this weekend. A sort of camping trip my school’s having. I’m not going. No one I know is going, but that’s not the reason why. It’s just, I hate camping. But today Jeremy came in during lunch and asked us all (me, Christi, Weston, and Judie) if we were going. And we all answered no.
     “Why not?” he demanded.
     “I want to, but I have a bunch of commitments involving my brother’s wedding,” Judie explained.
     “I have Yoga,” said Christi (don’t worry, Jeremy apologized for laughing).
     “Basketball,” Weston mumbled.
     “And Trinity won’t go because she’s too shy,” Jeremy finished, before I could explain about how I haven’t “done” camping since my twelfth birthday, when my mom made me go to Yosemite with my church and, well, it’s a long story, suffice it to say I don’t “do” camping.
     “I’m not shy!” I said indignantly.
     “She’s not shy,” Judie agreed. “You just have to know her a few years to know that,” she added, which Jeremy seemed to think proved his point.

It’s always interesting when you find out how someone else views you. I mean, I know that’s how people perceive me, but it’s weird to have someone say it to my face. I wasn’t lying to Jeremy though. I’m not shy.

Oh, as a child I was shy. But that was before the divorce. Before my world crashed in. Now I’m just scared. The problem is, I don’t know what I’m scared of.

There was a time when I would have said I was scared that they would stop loving me. But I know now that’s not true. Because they never started loving me. I never gave them a chance to. I’d say I’m scared of their dislike; but that would mean admitting that I’m so afraid of dislike that I’d rather accept their indifference than run the risk. And I hate their indifference. I hate being forgettable. But I am, and I know it’s my fault.

It took me sixteen years to find myself. But now that I know who I am, I don’t know how to show it. I’m used to hiding, because for sixteen years I was trying to hide the fact that I didn’t know who I was. Now I’m trying to hide the fact that I don’t know how to show it.

But I’m not shy. I’m just scared. And I’m not nearly as numb to the pain as I make them all believe. I’m not emotionless. I’m just afraid of feeling. I guess what I really wanted to say to Jeremy, to all of them really, can be summed up in this:

(I don’t know who made this icon. I got it from an icon quiz. I don’t remember where I took the quiz, either)

( Another thought... )