Our relationship is complicated. I have dedicated so much of my life to you, yet you still hurt me. We've been in this relationship for years now. I've spent hours and hours, every week with you, perfecting you, making you better and better. I've spent time with you that I could have spent time at work or with friends, but for some reason, I still come back to you. You've made my body ache, hell, I've even gotten medical conditions from you.
So why do I keep going back to you?
It's simple- you bring me joy. You bring me peace. When I'm sad, angry, stressed, depressed, you're the one I run to. And you know what? You welcome me with open arms, every single time. Even when I tell others that I hate you, when I put you down and don't pick you up again, and when I don't put my best foot forward, you're always there. Rain or shine.
You were with me in my darkest moments. When I had no one else to talk to. When I felt like there was no one around to take care of me, or listen to me, you were there.
For a long time I thought I was a disappointment to you. I thought I was terrible, not even worth sharing my work with you. Some days I was so discouraged I didn't even want to try. I thought that I was just some girl with a hobby, something I shouldn't show anyone else. But I understand now that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if I'm good or bad, just that I keep going. Every day I practice, trying to get better and better for you.
Sometimes I let you speak for me. I use you as a mouth piece when I can't find the words to show what I'm feeling. My hurt, my passions, my emotions-you take hold of that for me, and you interpret them for the world to hear. I don't know what I would do without you.
I used to keep you in a box, under my bed. I didn't show you to anyone. One night, during one of my depressive fits, I thought about you. I hadn't even thought about you in months-it's hard to make you when I'm depressed. I started thinking about how much I hid you, how I spent hours and hours with you, only to lock you away when I was done. It didn't seem fair to you or I. So I opened up the box and pulled you out, carefully, one by one. It was damaging, keeping you away. I pulled out out for others to see, proudly displaying you on the walls of my bedroom, something I had never done before.
I think that changed me. I started to look at you, stare at you, even. Every day, I would have to look at you. Eventually, I even started to love you. It took me a long time to get there, but now I'm even proud of you.
I still get a little weird about you, and I think that's my own fault. It's something to work on, because when I don't love you, I don't love myself. You're an extension of my thoughts, you're an extension of me, and I need to respect you. I'm sorry. You deserve to be shown and admired by others, and I'm working on that.
