My sieve heart.

My sieve heart, Part 1.

I sometimes just sit and look at my family and wonder how on earth we can be related. I don't understand the whole 'relation' thing. With some people you can see so clearly how they are related to others in their family. In their personality, their quirky mannerisms, their temper, their laugh, their walk, their eyes, their nose, their hair, their face. But me? I'm not so sure at all. I have my dads mouth I guess, and probably his stubborn-ness if I'm being completely honest, though I wish that wasn't the case. I don't think I got anything from my mother. My fat legs maybe. Or my lack of empathy for people –especially those close to me. I don't know. I just don't know where I fit in. I wonder sometimes what it would be like to find out I was adopted. To find out there is a whole other family out there that could be mine. Not really mine, obviously, or they wouldn't have out me up for adoption, but mine in the sense that I might relate to them in more ways than just DNA. My sister is a problem I can never quite work out. Sometimes she acts like we could be really great friends, and other times she acts as if I'm just a stain or her otherwise clean life. I wonder if I told them about the issues I'm having if they'd change how they treated me. Or changed how they acted around me. Maybe there would be less disdain. Less annoyance at my very presence. Maybe they'd stop talking to me, afraid they might say something to upset me or trigger something in my broken brain to go off like a firecracker. Having them stop talking to me wouldn't be such a terrible thing; it'd mean they wouldn't say the cruel things. The cruel things that they currently say in such offhand ways that I wonder if they even know that they're saying them, let alone that they're mean. They couldn't possibly know that it feels like little pins are sticking into my heart with every nasty comment. A tiny pin, into my tiny beating heart for every tiny hurtful word. It pinches, it stings, it tears me apart. People say that they build walls around themselves to protect their feelings like they're real things. And they say when they start to trust people that brick by brick, the walls can come down. I don't really know about the wall thing, I've never been an emotional person in that sense and I've never had to build a wall to keep people out because there really haven't been any people to come in. Instead, the pins. Instead, my heart. Instead of the brick walls being brought down with love and care and trust, there is my pin cushion heart, puncturing with every horrible word. Little pin pricks, instead of bricks. The walls come down in triumph but my heart is a sieve of misery.