I think it’s easy for people to ‘open up’ when they’ve always had people they could reach out to their entire lives; or, at least, have people who cared enough to be attentive to how they were feeling. I guess. I don’t know. I’ve never had that luxury. I guess it’s what made me get lost in an online escape early in my teenage hood. It was an escape, I could manage to not be a relevant version of myself for those few hours. That stopped being the case when those platforms were no longer safe zones, or escapes. It’s been greatly overwhelming having to deal with myself. How sensitive I am to stressors. How easy compulsion takes control over me. How obsessive I am about how imperfect I am, my insecurities, my low esteem. I’ve never belonged, from a young age, or felt a sense of belonging which also made me not desire belonging anywhere. Thus my rejection of everything. I’ve never found joy in forming bonds and friendships, they all seem fickle and temporary, much like love, really. People come and ago, as the cycle of life goes. I’m amused at this epiphany about friendships, their longevity contrasted by mortality. Hilarious. Moving on.
Maybe, I just don’t belong, and never will. I always end up feeling rejected, and undesirable whenever I opened up about me, much like this. Someone I called a friend once told me they don’t have time for my ‘shit’ when I was emotional and needed someone to vent to.
Servers and pieces of paper have accommodated me as a friend better than any other being has, all beings combined, really. Anyway, this is not interesting.
Maybe I am the problem, maybe, or maybe it’s just what I am. This existence thing has no true manual besides the things we deem fit and a necessary requirement to be recognised as a functional human being. Mental disorders are abnormalities, interestingly enough.
In essence, I feel really alone even with people in my life who I love and would like to think I connect well with; I am still overwhelmed by feelings of extreme anxiety, loneliness and emotional agony. It’s not like some of them are not trying to be humane and be a form of support structure, or whatever. Maybe they aren’t. It’s easy for me to let my agony and pain continue to rot my insides than it is to vent. And sometimes, it’s when the little things are taken lightly that I retreat back to my shell. My lonesome point of comfort. Being comfortable and openness are foreign for me, and it always makes me anxious and uncomfortable when someone wants to get in my head, or wants me to share things that leave me with a face drenched in tears. That’s not how opening up should work, not to me. Not with me.
My point is, it’s not easy for me to talk to people. To trust them. To trust that they will see me as functional. To trust that they want me to be a part of their lives. To trust that I am genuinely interested in them. To trust that they are genuine too. To trust they have decency, to trust they can display plausible comprehensiveness of me. I have never belonged, and being an island has left me purposeless with no real desire to partake in the simplest forms of the human experience, or, as they say, enjoy life, seek adventures, and whatever pleasures of life.