11/12/17, The lonely night.

Today was going pretty well, I managed to get out of the house without having a panic attack. I walked my dog a couple miles down to the beach, I watched the sun set behind me as I walked there and got to the beach as it was really getting dark. The sound of the surf hitting the sand was really soothing, and as the stars came out I was treated to a view I haven't seen since I was little. I could see the Milky Way streched out across the pitch-black backround of the sky, each star twinkling in it's own brilliance. Beautiful. I thought about how each stars unique hues held beauty depending on the viewer. 

I remembered a conversation I had with a friend long gone as we stood out in the cold, and dark for hours, the week warmth of a dying fire behind us until it finally flickered out and she turned to me and said,

"Do you see that one? The orange one sitting right below Orion. That one is my favorite." I remember looking at her puzzled and asking,

"Why the orange one? It's not brilliant, or special. It's not pretty, or part of any constellation. Why the orange one?" I asked again. I remember the smile she gave me then. It's easy for me to forget that she was only fourteen. Fourteen and wiser than I am now. She turned to me, smiled and said,

"Beauty is in the eye's of the beholder. You should know that. Besides." She paused, "Things are only special if we make them so. The constellations that make all those other stars special are only in your head. There are no lines criss-crossing the sky, saying which stars are important and which aren't. It's just what we like, and I like that one, and I'm going to name it after you."

I remember that conversation, because it's one of my favorites, but I couldn't help like feeling a whole lot like my star up there. Using my self up for fuel just trying to burn in the right hue to shine. Shine so that perhaps someone would see me, and actually see me. 

But right now, I feel like a star. Not one of the important ones they people decided to take notice of. No, I feel like my little orange star. Ugly. Ugly because I was forgotten and perhaps in the process I forgot myself. Because I don't remember who I am, or who i was, just that when the fault lines where drawn they where all arrows. And those arrows pointed right to me.

I feel like a star. Burning up and alone. Light years from my nearest neighbor with nothing in between. No stepping stones to bridge a gap so wide it measured with time, not space. I'm 21 and it takes more than my fingers to count the years back to a time when I was happy. I'm 21 years young and I count my accomplishments as that I haven't killed myself, yet. I'm 21 and it's been 7 years since I looked someone in the eyes and new that I could tell them anything. Anything at all about me and they still wouldn't leave me out to dry.

It's hard for me to look at that and think that perhaps it's not just me. I'm the only common denominator. Me. Perhaps it is my fault for being a freak, and a useless waste of space, and in the case of my mother, a burden. "It's mental illness" they cry, but if that's not me, who is. I've never met them... What if that is just me.. Perhaps I am that star, not special, but forgettable, with no inherent value other than what others give me. Which is not very much as it turns out...