Don’t read this.
I put on a brave face a lot of the time.
But you know, it really hurts knowing that I’m the only one of my friends who is home alone, the only one that doesn’t get invited to stuff. It wouldn’t be this bad, for most people. But it is all my fault. I purposely sabotage my own attempts at being sociable, just so I can feel like crap about something. I don’t think I’m good enough to be happy. And that’s what makes it hurt so much, knowing that the only one I have to blame is myself, and knowing that I did it on purpose.
And the temptation to make a crack about how I am a middle class kid sitting in the suburbs whining about his second-rate emotional issues while listening to My Chemical Romance is almost too hard to resist. In a way it’s ridiculous because nothing really terrible has ever happened to me. I mean, I know kids who have gone through some really tough stuff. All I can complain of is a dad who’s always at work and a mom who nags me to clean up my room. But that doesn’t really make it feel any better, it still hurts.
I don’t think there is a solution to this. It’s not like it just goes away. Every time I feel happy, it’s tainted by the knowledge that as soon as I get back home again, I’m gonna fall back into the same old rut. I’ll stay up all night with a knot in my throat again. I’ll check my empty phone inbox over and over again, hoping that someone thought of me. It’s my imagination that kills me. I read too far into what people say, I read too far into what they don’t say.
Not having anyone to talk to about it is hard as well. None of my friends really care about much except for themselves, or so my overactive, chronically anxious imagination would have me believe. I feel bad for whining to them, I feel bad for making them deal with my issues. I’m not even posting this where anyone I know can see it. Maybe it’ll make it better to just get it out there, even if no one even reads it.
So yeah. If you read that, good for you. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be just fine. In a My Chem kind of way.
