she is a mess

She doesn’t feel much most of the time. Mostly confusion, if she had to name it. Anxious confusion, happy confusion (there’s not much of that), sad confusion…it’s all just confusion. Because see, when she was younger, quite a few years younger when she should have been carefree and happy go lucky, she taught herself to hate the world and herself with it. She taught herself to tamp down her happiness whenever it came, to ignore it in favour of focusing on all her failures and short comings, to be overly modest with a fast crumbling self esteem. She doesn’t know why she did it, now, but she just knows that she did. Maybe she wanted to be stronger. Her own screwed up way to deal with the overwhelming disappointment of failure.


She thinks it might be because she realized how much she never fit in, how much she’s unliked. She thinks she might have done it to make herself not care about what other people thought about her. Made herself purposely indifferent to the comings and goings of other people, hardened her shell, became meaner, crueler, so she would be able to protect herself. It’s backfired spectacularly, but the damage is done.


She’s a fucking mess. She has so many trust issues, her self esteem that was never the best is now worse than ever and she doesn’t think she will ever stop doubting herself. She doesn’t see herself as capable and she’s scared of the world. How will she ever make friends and boyfriends if she can’t trust anyone, not even her family? Especially not her family, old fashioned as they are, they wouldn’t understand her fears. They wouldn’t deal with it in a suitable way either, only make her feel worse, like there was something wrong with her.


And maybe there is, she’s not sure. She hopes there might be something physically wrong, hormones or some shit, some mental disorder that she can blame. Or rather, just somewhere to start in order to find a way to heal. She just wants to know that it’s not her fault she’s like this (eve though it is) and that it’s not just her faulty personality. Not just because she’s too sensitive or something.


She might be though. She’s everything she hates (or she hates everything she is). She’s not sure which, but in the end, it doesn’t matter much.


When she ranks the people she sees around her, she only ever puts a few below her on her scale. Everyone else is lifted high above her, so far up that she can never reach them, on the ground, staring up at the starry figures they make.


Sometimes, it’s not confusion. It’s a subtler feeling that she can’t name. it comes a bit close to despair, if she analyzes it enough. But not there yet. Just an inherent feeling that something is wrong, that there’s something wrong with her. She just can’t tell what it is.


And so she’s just so scared, of herself, of the world, of being disliked.


That’s her greatest fear, of being disliked, and it comes true every single day, every single night.


She feels hopeless, like she doesn’t deserve anything at all. she doesn’t deserve happiness, she’s not worthy of it. she can’t think of a concrete reason why, but it’s a feeling that doesn’t ever leave her nowadays. She’s not worthy, no one likes her, she should just disappear and die and everyone would be so happy that she’s gone.


She’s a fucking mess, she feels like an ugly, brittle thing that broke apart into hundreds of little pieces, all sharp edges and murky glass, and she’s not beautiful at all, even when she wasn’t so broken, and she’s been taped and glued together haphazardly, pieces bound tight and out of place with duct tape made of sarcasm and disdain and hatred and despair, and it’s an evil miasmic ward that stops people from looking too close at her jagged edges and dark chasm cracks.


She feels like the slightest touch would break her apart again. So she holds herself away, isolates herself from everyone she meets, and tries to convince herself that being lonely isn’t so bad after all.


She doesn’t do a very good job of it. But what else can she do?