Psychology & psychiatrics Perspective
You got the right stuff ... baby ... I love the way you turn me on. You got the right stuff ... baby ... love the way you sing that song. Step one: we can have lots of fun. Step two: there's so much we can do. Step three: it's just you and meeee. Step four: I can give you more. STep five: I know you. You are too short. You had bad skin. You couldn't talk to them very well. Words didn't seem to work. You tried so hard to understand them. You saw them having fun, and it seemed like such a mystery: almost magic. Made you think that there was something wrong with you. You'd look in the mirror trying to find it. You thought that you were ugly, and that everyone was looking at you. So you learn to be invisible. Ah, the weekend nights alone. Where were you? In the basement? In the attic? In your room? Working some job. Just to have something to do. Did you ever get invited to one of their parties? For hours, you'd imagine the scenarios that may transpire. They would laugh at you? If they would notice that you came from a different planet? Did you think that you might be the "life of the party"? That all these people were going to talk to you, and you would find out that you were wrong, that you had a lot of friends and you weren't so strange after all? A hate that filled every waking moment. A hate that carried you for a long time. You couldn't figure out what they saw and the way they lived. The place they weren't: that was home. I know you. You're sensitive, and you hide it. It seems that when you show a part of yourself that is the least bit vulnerable, someone takes advantage of you. You don't trust people. You try to find that special person: someone you can be with, someone you won't feel so strange around. And you found that they don't really exist. You feel closer to people on movie screens. You spend a lot of time daydreaming. But they don't know, do they? About the long nightshifts alone. About the years of keeping yourself company. All the nights you wrapped your arms around yourself so you could imagine someone holding you. The intense depression, the raging hate, the devastation of rejection. It astounds you how they can be soooooooo smooth. How they seem to pass thru life as if like itself was some divine gift. And it infuriates you to watch yourself with your apparent skill in finding every way possible to screw it up. For you, life is a long trip. Birds sing to you at night. Solitude is a hard one ally, faithful and patient.