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@sometimes-anhedonic
Six months after returning home.
Sometimes I miss the freedom of solitude. My social battery recharging peacefully, free from passive-aggressiveness or guilt-tripping.
But sometimes I'm happy I'm back. Having people around me means less time for my brain to turn against me, more obliged to get out of bed, less time crying over nothing and everything.
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People underestimate how much it fucks you up to be subtly excluded as a kid. I would try to talk to my classmates and be met with disinterest or annoyance. The one friend I had, who I clung to and nodded along to his every word, had other friends he liked just as much or more. And his other friends didn’t care for me at all.
I look back at pictures from the time and see how separated I was from them. I remember knowing I was different. I remember posing questions about the world to the girls playing next to me and realizing that they had never asked the same ones to themselves. That the ways we thought couldn’t be more different.
I kept myself amused with my own fanatical stories and musings in my head. I would wander the playground on a circular path, imagining a friend and being sorely disappointed when it didn’t feel as real as I’d hoped.
There was a bubble separating me from everyone else, thin, and nearly invisible, but with a pearly sheen you could catch under the right conditions. I knew it was there, they knew it was there, and it changed me
96 hours wasted.
Some might say rest days are meant for rest. But in my case, my age, my situation, it's meant time to move forward. I'm not sure if it's fear or laziness that's preventing me from moving forward with my life.
I want to move forward with my life. But I just wasted 96 hours meant to jumpstart it.
Celebrate the little things, they say.
Today, I got up and made french toast. And then went back to bed again.
I think that counts as a win.
My vacation just ended.
That feeling of going back to reality is a really bad drop.
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Predictably, I am upset after getting what I want.
It's not even a big deal, I asked a mid-range tablet for Christmas. It's not even a flagship product. It's really not that expensive, but I feel that it's a luxury expense. As in, I have a decent phone and laptop. I really don't need a tablet, but I've always wanted one.
So when they asked what I wanted, I said I wanted them to pay for half of the tablet. They paid for it in full.
I got what I wanted, but I feel immensely guilty. I am fully upset, crying alone in my place, for getting something that I wanted in the first place but didn't need.
I can't sleep again.
I remember something from fifth grade. There was an activity during class that involved who your friends were among your classmates, and I couldn't, for the life of me, do it. The activity ended without anything in my activity sheet and, to my horror, my teacher singled me out.
Do you not have any friends in this class, she asked, and I had my head lowered and tried not to sink to the floor and cry.
There was one girl- I remember her being genuinely nice- who confusedly asked aloud Am I not your friend??
And to this day I still think about it. She never confronted me about that activity, and we spent the next few months of fifth grade with that casual acquaintance that classmates usually are, then in high school she moved to the US.
Back then I may not have believed her, and honestly I don't think she meant we were actually friends, but I wanted her to know that I at least appreciated the sentiment now.
I made a list of things to do before I went to sleep.
The day's almost over, and I still haven't left my bed.
I think I'm just realizing that I have never been okay for a long, long time. I'm thirty-three now, and I haven't been okay for twenty-three years.
It's hard coming to terms to that. It's harder to even do something about it.
I'm languishing, but I can't find the strength to get out of this.
I just want to tell someone that, sometimes, I get deeply sad for no reason.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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When someone dies, the world doesn't stop to grieve, even when you want to. Life goes on, no matter how much you will the earth to stop spinning on its axis.
The world will not stop to grieve one small death, even if its an innocent kitten's. No matter how much that small life meant to you.
I remember telling my friends way back in middle school, when the class had a project about our future, that I'll probably not live to see thirty.
I'm turning thirty-three this month.
I'm overdue, but it's my fear of death that's stopping me.
This is also the first time I'm acknowledging that I want to die, without it being in a joking context.
You know you're touch-starved when you wake up first thing in the morning and all you want to do is kiss someone for comfort.
My emotions are a mess.
This may or may not be hormonal. After a rollercoaster week, suddenly I'm happy. Like yesterday, I was incredibly miserable and struggling with a terrible migraine, but now I'm okay. I was literally having a pity party for having a very turbulent week, and suddenly all the negative energy is gone? I'm so okay that I'm not sleeping, but not because I'm upset. Because I feel fine and strangely happy.
I just came from work, and I managed to clean my place, do laundry, run some errands. And still not sleepy, when ordinarily I'm asleep three hours after getting home.
And now I'm looking forward to having some tea when I wake up, when I haven't even slept yet.
Is it normal to feel guilty that, when someone close to you died, you could've done something more to prevent that?
Out of everyone in my family, I could have done something more.
I'm scared to come home. I feel that I'll be blamed. That I haven't done enough. That I didn't do anything, that I was away, that I was working when everything happened.
I'm scared that they're right.
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The smallest mistakes are my triggers.
I left my umbrella on the bus. It was raining, so I set it down on a seat. I was already home when I realized it was gone.
I feel like an idiot.
I've always wondered if it's normal to feel guilty when people say I look happy.
I was basically caffeine-powered by the time my shift started. And to compensate for the internal chaotic, sleep-deprived mind I was being more verbal, more smiley, more hands-on than usual. I often wonder if my colleagues ever notice it, but I guess they don't know me that much. But I still felt like a fraud when time someone said I looked cheerful and happy today.
