My life is not the type of thing you would call horrible. I don’t have big reasons to say, “hey I hate my life and I wish I was dead”. I don’t cut, I don’t do drugs, I don’t drink, I don’t smoke. From where I’m from, parties, beach, being skinny, having tons of boyfriends, and not giving a fuck to school is a good way to live.
If you don’t know a series, you don’t belong to this group. If you don’t like this band, you don’t belong to this group. If you don’t like to dress up this way, you don’t belong to this group.
In today’s society, it feels like you are obligated to laugh. To show happiness. To have a bunch of best friends. To be a hypocrite.
To play pretend.
And guess what. I never was really good at playing pretend. I wore tons of masks. I tried different groups, different people, different tastes.
I always got emotionally tired.
Like I couldn’t talk to anyone anymore.
All I just could do was ignore.
And pushing people away.
And drowning in my own black whole full of drawings and imagination.
I feel like I am pitying myself. Like there is a lot more people that can say that life sucks.
But I guess life sucks equally for all. Life sucks for me. Because when I try to get along with someone, I always get tired of that person’s energy and the way they are. Because I cry at night realizing life has no meaning at all except the excuses we tell ourselves so we can stop worrying with the end so much and live as ignorant. Because we humans are parasites that kill everything near them for comfort.
Because I never got to live my life the way I wanted.
Because I never really had a choice.
But don’t worry. I won’t kill myself. Life is a book written with tears and laughter. Blood and mercy. I want to know how the story goes.
Even though it’s not my favourite story.
It’s the only story I have.
Im 48, and every word you wrote is part of what, who and how I came to be here. I’ve found my masks useful, and cried later, I’ve found my friends tedious, and now live with only one I can tolerate. I’ve stopped having sex because it was never about me. No body knows me the way I thought a good friend, even a lover might. It’s not that they can’t, but I guess I never really wanted it in the first place. I don’t fit in with any of them. That’s ok. I can share my time when I can, but I’ve learned to stick up to what I feel will give me comfort, and piece.
I’ve burnt bridges and lost most family and friends. But I’m not obligated to their parties, their expectations. INFP with a textbook middle child kind reaction to most things. IT’s weird, but no one is coming to my rescue, and I’m done saving girls only to find they don’t need my saving.
You don’t need my saving, or my best wishes. But I do hope you learn soon, that even when you’re really alone, no one can be everything you need them to be. You need them to see you winning your wars. If they deserve to peek in past those masks.
Find yourself, but don’t be lonely, every stranger is a person that has something to offer.