on confessing

Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts? Just a cage of rib bones and some other various parts. So it's fairly simple to cut right through the mess, And to stop the muscle that makes us confess.- Ingrid Michaelson (Breakable)
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I confess:

I am a mess. I drink for all the wrong reasons, I ignore the people in the my life who probably mean more to me than anyone else, I dwell on the ones who make me miserable, I hate myself, I'm paused in time waiting for sometime good to come that never does, I know that I'm wasting my own time, I feel helpless, confused, upset, hurt, alone, all of that and probably a few other things too.

But that doesn't mean you know me.

I confess:

I write because I love to. I read because it helps me understand. I listen to music obsessively because it is a more productive outlet than a bottle of vodka. I go to bed at 10 o'clock at night now so that I don't have the urge to go out with anyone. I get up at 7am every day and trek to school, knowing this is my last semester here. I bartend every wednesday night, because it's my job. I think about basketball and possible research topics for my thesis even though it's two years away from now, because anything, anything, is better than thinking about the present.

But none of that means you know me, either. There is more to me than you think, and you will never know the half of it. Fuck off.