Disquietude

When I visualize it, its like a layer of impermeable metal just below my skin, silencing and caging in the true me. I don't know the true me anymore. I only know the scared me.

The scared me is the one that showed up when the real me went away. The scared me is the only one I've known for a few years now. The scared me fits in, kind of. She smiles and laughs with people that are kind of her friends. She is normal, kind of. She is happy, kind of.

She always looks over her shoulder. Twice. She doesn't like to talk to new people. She always worries. What do they think of her? Are they judging her? Of course they're judging her. They think she's a fool, don't they? They're laughing. Always laughing. Always judging. Always hating.

She doesn't believe in herself. She needs to be reassured, even though some part of her knows she's good enough. That part is small, and though it screams at her constantly, it just can't make her believe it.

The real me was beautiful. She was delightfully awkward, she was quirky, she was free. She was happy. She wasn't terrified of making mistakes - she just lived. She had close friends, she was capable of caring - really and truly caring. I guess that couldn't last.

She went away and I became jaded. That layer of impermeable metal formed around my heart first, then spread to the rest of me. I became cold and scared. I lost my faith in kindness and became suspicious of everyone's intentions.

I feel like I take up too much space. Every step down the hallway or across the street is agony. I am clumsy and big and awkward - incapable of just being like everyone else, if only for a moment.

I ruin everyone's fun because I don't know what to say. I don't think like them. I think critically, analyzing everything, and always worrying. I don't know how to have a real conversation for a long period of time. I don't have anything to talk about.

That's a lie. I have lots to talk about, I'm just never given the opportunity to say it. Or maybe I do, but I just don't take it. I assume that so much is understood that I don't have to say it. Maybe that's part of my problem.

I stick out like a sore thumb -or an overused cliche in a rambling blog- I feel like everyone is staring. I know they hate me. I know they're asking themselves why I can't just be normal. Why can't I just be normal?

Hate is a strange thing. Like love, it twists your heart and your mind to think differently. It deludes your emotions and drains you of the ability to care about anything else. But unlike love, when you hate somebody, there is no joy to offset the pain. There is only pain and hate and a throbbing pulse where your figurative heart used to be.

I think I hate myself a little bit. And that scares me a hell of a lot. I hate that I'm so boring and so unusual and so.......Wrong. I hate that there is no one else in the world that thinks like I do, and if there is, I haven't met them and probably never will. It isn't fair.

Life isn't fair. People say that all the time, but I doubt its true. If it was, everyone would be disadvantaged in some way. There would be more people like me, doomed to pessimism and hopelessness for their differences. There is fairness in the world. It just seems like I'm missing out on it.

Me

So here's the thing: I know I'm a total loser. Its taken a while, but I've finally come to terms with it. And here's the kicker: I absolutely love it.

I know that I'll never fit in with the popular group. They're basically a cult, and they all live up to the same supposed "perfect" standards. I don't want to live up to anyone else's expectations -except those of my parents- because mine are the only one that matter. I don't want some blond bitch with air for brains telling me how to act or what to do. I love who I am, and no one is going to tell me I'm not good enough.

I'll be the first to tell you that I don't have a lot of friends. I'm socially awkward and phobic, and its nearly impossible for me to make friends. By some miracle, I've managed to find a group of decent people that accepts me for who I am, not the designer I wear or my parents' annual income. I'm not outrageously close to this group of people, but they've been kinder to me than any group of people ever has before, and I will always be thankful for that.

Within that group of friendly acquaintances, I have found a few genuinely good people that I am proud to call my closest friends. The one that outshines all others that I know is Rhiannon. She accepts my oddities for what they are: a part of who I am and what makes me unique. She understands me, and that's the most you can ask for in a friend.

I realized tonight how lucky I am to be a loner of sorts. I don't have people that call themselves my friends constantly judging me, and I love that. I have a few people I can trust with my secrets and share memories with, and that's enough for me. I'm happy. Despite anything I ever say, remember that, because I am always happy that I am free from dramatic, twisted relationships that could cripple my personality with conformity. I am free. I am me. And I love myself.

Basically, the point of this rant/creative blabbering expression of my feelings is to say that I am happy, and maybe for future reference for myself, so I will always remember the love I have for this unique freedom I possess.

xo
Helen