All I want is to stop pretending
My roommate is so lucky.
She's never known what it's like to be in constant pain. She's never known the humiliation of physical deformities. She's never known the struggle to keep breathing. She's physically perfect and mentally normal.
I hate her for it.
Worse, I hate myself for hating her. She's been nothing but nice. She's a wonderful person, she really is.
She just has this need to give advice on things she's never experienced. A few months ago, she asked why I didn't wear dresses more often. Taken aback, I said that I was self-conscious about the scar on my back from scoliosis surgery. She gave me this look of total disgust and told me to get over it, take pride in it.
What?
It's a hideous scar that runs from my neck to my bum. How can I be proud of that? It's just another reminder that I'm abnormal.
Tonight's a bad night. It's like there's a hole in my chest, cold and hard as stone. Either I feel nothing or I feel too much.
Tonight I'm feeling too much and going to pieces.
This is the second time this week I'm considering something stupid. Maybe waiting until after break to start talking to someone at my college's counseling center was a stupid idea. Maybe considering talking to someone at all is a stupid idea. Maybe I'm meant to be like this. Maybe life isn't for everyone.
I'm tired of feeling so worthless. I'm tired of being in so much pain. I'm tired of being so lonely, like no matter how many people I talk to, nobody will ever consider me a friend.
I'm tired of life.
It's like there are weights on my mind, pulling me down, pulling me under. No matter how much I pretend to smile, to be happy, it's still just pretend. Even when I am happy, there's still that nagging voice: When will this end? When you stop being happy, I'll be waiting. And I'll be worse than ever.
My religion professor killed herself over Thanksgiving break. When her family was talking about her, about how she'd felt, about how she'd considered and attempted before, their descriptions were eerily familiar. Until that discussion, I'd thought this was normal. It's not like I'd ever had anything to compare it to. I've never been any other way. I've been fighting this since before puberty. I didn't have a name for it then. I couldn't even describe it when it first started. I just knew that it wasn't something to talk about. It wasn't something you discussed with anyone, but it was something everyone did. Like using the toilet: totally common, but never discussed.
During that discussion, I realized it wasn't normal. It was never discussed because no normal person felt that way. Another day, another abnormality.
I'm tired of being abnormal. Everyone always talks about how being normal is overrated, but it's not. Being normal is everything. Being normal is how you fit in, it's how you know you're not doing anything wrong. It's how you know you're not screwing up your life.
11:11. My wish, my childish wish, star light star bright, birthday candles, all those trite little things to make a child feel special? Every time for the past four years, my wish has been the same:
Let me stop hurting.
Apparently, that's too much to ask for.
So I keep up a smile, keep up my barriers, and pretend I'm okay.
She's never known what it's like to be in constant pain. She's never known the humiliation of physical deformities. She's never known the struggle to keep breathing. She's physically perfect and mentally normal.
I hate her for it.
Worse, I hate myself for hating her. She's been nothing but nice. She's a wonderful person, she really is.
She just has this need to give advice on things she's never experienced. A few months ago, she asked why I didn't wear dresses more often. Taken aback, I said that I was self-conscious about the scar on my back from scoliosis surgery. She gave me this look of total disgust and told me to get over it, take pride in it.
What?
It's a hideous scar that runs from my neck to my bum. How can I be proud of that? It's just another reminder that I'm abnormal.
Tonight's a bad night. It's like there's a hole in my chest, cold and hard as stone. Either I feel nothing or I feel too much.
Tonight I'm feeling too much and going to pieces.
This is the second time this week I'm considering something stupid. Maybe waiting until after break to start talking to someone at my college's counseling center was a stupid idea. Maybe considering talking to someone at all is a stupid idea. Maybe I'm meant to be like this. Maybe life isn't for everyone.
I'm tired of feeling so worthless. I'm tired of being in so much pain. I'm tired of being so lonely, like no matter how many people I talk to, nobody will ever consider me a friend.
I'm tired of life.
It's like there are weights on my mind, pulling me down, pulling me under. No matter how much I pretend to smile, to be happy, it's still just pretend. Even when I am happy, there's still that nagging voice: When will this end? When you stop being happy, I'll be waiting. And I'll be worse than ever.
My religion professor killed herself over Thanksgiving break. When her family was talking about her, about how she'd felt, about how she'd considered and attempted before, their descriptions were eerily familiar. Until that discussion, I'd thought this was normal. It's not like I'd ever had anything to compare it to. I've never been any other way. I've been fighting this since before puberty. I didn't have a name for it then. I couldn't even describe it when it first started. I just knew that it wasn't something to talk about. It wasn't something you discussed with anyone, but it was something everyone did. Like using the toilet: totally common, but never discussed.
During that discussion, I realized it wasn't normal. It was never discussed because no normal person felt that way. Another day, another abnormality.
I'm tired of being abnormal. Everyone always talks about how being normal is overrated, but it's not. Being normal is everything. Being normal is how you fit in, it's how you know you're not doing anything wrong. It's how you know you're not screwing up your life.
11:11. My wish, my childish wish, star light star bright, birthday candles, all those trite little things to make a child feel special? Every time for the past four years, my wish has been the same:
Let me stop hurting.
Apparently, that's too much to ask for.
So I keep up a smile, keep up my barriers, and pretend I'm okay.
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