#feeling alien

neurodivergency - feeling like an alien, foreign to this wierd planet and its customs and feeling like you missed some guide on how to be human and have been trying to adapt/wing it since a young age to merely mimick being a human being based on what your surroundings have taught you.

bpd - feeling like you died years ago, a shell of a human no long fit for human existence and past its prime/expiration date and not feeling fit to continue or fit in in this world yet just continuing on as a husk that nether the less continued moving along.

dollhood - feeling like your pretending to be a person, an object that should not have to have such complicated internal thoughts and is being misstreated by having to pretend to be human instead of letting go and being a doll.

Hanging around other women and trying to fit in always makes me feel more like I’m human shaped than actually human.

(Verse I)

I think I'm an Alien,

hiding among the crowd,

a quiet experiment,

that someone forgot about.

I was never like them,

I don't understand their ways.

I'd give anything to feel normal,

to belong here for a day.

(Pre- Chorus)

I wish for love,

for someone who sees through my skin.

I wish for words,

that sound like where i've been.

I'm not their kind,

but still i want to be seen.

Tell me,is there someone

out there like me?

(Verse II)

How do you live among humans?

Do you understand their speech?

Do you feel the same cold disctance,

the warmth just out of reach?

I'm here,

I don't know where you are,

but i love you anyway

from far.

(Bridge)

Maybe the mothership

left without us, unaware.

But we can find each other,

we can still built our home right here.

(Final Chorus)

We can be strange together,

we can be stars unseen.

If they forgot to take us,

we'll make our own machine.

We can be strange together,

and still we'll shine

I still wish for the fairies to come take me back sometimes. I know conceptually that I’m human, but I never truly felt that way. I know some of the weird social concepts and norms but it Stil feels unnatural. Expect at this point unnatural feels natural because things have never felt comfortable and I’ve conditioned myself to think that it never will feel comfortable. So I should just get my shit together. Right? Because that what everybody does. I’m not special right. I’m just weird. That’s not abnormal. That’s not unnatural. Then tell me why most fictional races makes more sense to me. Tell me why I feel more seen by a story about an amphibian fish man makes me feel more seen than any piece of main stream media. I feel othered. I feel Alien. Some days I have to remind myself that I am human. Those are the days I barely function because the pressure of those days the thought of putting on a face and acting “human” feels like torture. I am human but people don’t act like I am I’m some weird creature that needs to be contained and cut down to fit the norm.

Some mornings dreams linger on your tongue strangely metallic. The events shatter at the sound of your alarm, but the memory remains in your mouth until you brush your teeth and rinse it all away. 

Some nights, when you’re too tired to sleep, you’ll catch your reflection in a dark window and need a moment to recognize yourself. In the first glance something seems off--elongated, missing, or added. Then you blink, and there you are.

Some days, buried deep within your tasks for the day, you’ll catch yourself humming a song you don’t recognize. The moment you try to place it, the melody escapes you and the tune twists to whatever you’ve heard recently.

Time is wonky for everyone these days, but you stood at a window at dusk and picked out the hazy moon for only a moment, but then over an hour had passed and the sun was gone.

Sometimes you feel it--whatever it is--pressing up under your skin, rushing through your blood, beating alongside your heart, promising soon, soon, soon.

It is normal, you know, to feel displaced, to feel like you don’t belong. Other languages have words for it--nostalgia for something never experienced, yearning for a home you never had.

You spit the metallic out of your mouth those mornings and silently chant, “This is normal. This is normal. This is normal.”

Nothing is calling you home.

You are who you are.

Plenty of people cannot remember the details of their past. We remember childhood in broad strokes, the bright moments of joy, sadness, hope, and terror. Everything runs together eventually.

Plenty of people feel alien sometimes. That’s what it means to be human.

Right?

(Sometimes, in the very early morning, between waking and dressing for the day, when the sun is a soft golden glow and you hold a warm mug with both hands and lies are harder to find, you can admit something isn’t right. The story of your life is missing a stair and you keep tripping over it and then denying it exists. In those very early hours, when the sun itself is still waking, you can ask yourself, ‘What did I run away from? What am I running away from?’ And you sip your drink and the morning remains silent, without answers).

One day you step out of the shower and notice a faint scar you don’t remember. You’re missing the story for it. And you force your eyes away. Dress. Ignore the line that doesn’t belong on your skin. It burns like lightning all day, but then you forget until, weeks later, your eyes catch on it again.

You go out for groceries and a woman’s eyes widen over her mask when she sees you. “I didn’t realize you were here, too!”

You step back. “Think you got the wrong person. Sorry.”

Her face freezes and then shatters. “Oh.” She forces a laugh and points to her mask. “It’s so hard to tell these days. Sorry to bother you.”

Her pained laugh haunts you for the rest of the day, almost impossibly familiar.