I will start by apologizing ahead of time for the selfish nature this post is about to take on. Also, for the rambling, jumbled thoughts about to jump from my brain to this page.

I’m tired of believing that people mean what they say. I’m tired of expecting people to speak reality just because I do. For the love of God, people, just be real.

To the eighteen (yes, 18) people I messaged last night, I want to say thank you to the exactly NONE of you that responded. To the three people, in that moment, that reached out to me via message without my having messaged you first – know that I’m sincerely grateful.

I’ve just come to realize that people don’t often mean when they say “message me any time – day or night – and I’ll be there to talk or just listen” and they may mean it in that moment, but the proof is in the pudding. I messaged you. You slept. That’s actually okay. It just helps me recognize reality. A reality that sometimes bites.

To those I know would have answered that I never actually messaged, I’m sorry. I couldn’t. Not after so many other attempts tried and failed. See, I don’t always hurt and feel pain as deeply as last night. So, part of this is simply me figuring things out. Which also kinda sucks.

You see, last night, I couldn’t see beyond the pain. I needed a friend. I needed a hug. I needed to just be. The tears were very real, freely flowing, and exhausting. Crying myself to sleep hurts. Thankfully, I don’t experience this often. However, when I do, I’m learning that well intentioned people that have no follow through just add to the pain instead of being the voice of hope and love I was evidently so desperately seeking.

So, to those who tell me to contact you when I need it – pardon me if I laugh. Or if I cry. I know you won’t mean to, but you’ll teach me a lesson that will become a reality that I wish I didn’t know. That, simply, is that I’m not important to you on the way you say, and you really won’t be there in those moments. It seems that if I commit that to memory, it’ll hurt worse initially – but I’ll be better off.

To those wondering if I’m okay – I’m not. To those who read this and have the urge to reach out – don’t. Well, you can – but be willing to talk. Be willing to not walk away because you don’t have the words. Tell me that. Offer to just sit with me in the pain. That’s where healing even has a chance at beginning. But, do feel free to pray for me, if that’s your thing. You can even tell me you’re praying for me. Just be prepared for whatever my response is.

To the handful of you who you KNOW this doesn’t apply to you – please don’t feel the need to just say something for the sake of saying words. Please don’t do that. I know there are those of you who love me for me. You don’t have to say it. I already know. Thank you for that.

To those of you who suddenly feel bad, I’m sorry. Just hear my words and consider your own words. You be you. But please let your words be true.

To those who will undoubtedly remind me that it’ll all be okay, that I have reasons to live, and that other people need me. I get that. I already know this too. I’ve actually been encouraged to make a list – of all the reasons I have to live, and all the things I find value in. I’ve done that. I look at it. I’ll continue to do so.

Oh there’s another group of you I’d also like to address. Those of you also knee deep in your own pain. Why can’t we hurt together? For those of you that my daughter dying IS the reason for your pain, and talking to you only causes more pain – all I can say is I’m sorry. I wish that weren’t the case, and my heart breaks because it is that way. I’m not asking you to change that – but only to realize that hurts so much. To think I’m at fault for causing you pain. When I reach out and ask if you’re okay, I legitimately am concerned. I want to do life with you. I just wish that it didn’t cause you pain. Maybe one day it won’t. I hope that one day comes.

To everyone reading who may have zero clue how to act, react, or respond – that’s okay. Thanks for just hearing my heart here. Thanks for listening as I give my heart a voice. That voice may be happy and smiling one day, while broken and shaky another. Thank you for allowing that to simply be.