An Open Letter

It’s three in the morning and I just got back from clubbing. The people I went with loved having me there, and even the people that we met and random strangers I danced with also felt the same. One guy even bought me a shot. One guy complimented my shoulders, saying that I must be hitting the shoulder press. I didn’t know what to say back, and I felt bad. I felt fucking bad. Not even in a guilty way, but again like it felt like someone’s lying to me, like the entire world had an inside joke where they all compliment me on the shit that I’m proud of that I don’t think is worth being proud of. This happens consistently enough that I know I’m fucking insane for feeling bad about it, this never happened before and now it’s happened twice in one week. Before I went to the club I even worked out shoulders, and I felt super proud, all the way until I actually looked at the photos I took. And then I felt like I had nothing to be happy about. And so I took solace in my take that I would enjoy the gym regardless of how it made me look. I should be happy. I should feel attractive and I should feel wanted and I should feel like the person that I’ve become is someone that I want to live as. But instead I wonder if I’m going to be here until the end of the year, in time for D to make her instagram post. I’ve weirdly fallen upwards, I’ve just decided to do the things that make me laugh, and other people like that. But then the problem is no matter how good things look, there will always be a moment where doubt can creep in and fully obscure all sun. N sat with her legs pressed against T, and I noticed that I didn’t even want to go sit with everyone else at the end of the night. My natural tendency is to push myself lower down. I set myself up to get more evidence that I just can’t be loved, and that I’m not worth it. And no one is going to go out of their way to include me like that, and so even though I probably am liked, I end up fabricating enough proof for me to want to go home and be like the way I am.

I thought if I was attractive things would change. I was right, things did change. People treat me better, and I get positive feedback constantly. But also I was wrong, because I refuse to be happy deep down. D said that someone had a similar personality to mine, and I immediately pushed back in my mind, because I wanted to validate the fact that she doesn’t know me past this one face. It’s just a photograph of this weird constantly changing shape that I am. All of the parts that are in the shade stay that way. Unseen, and hidden. Necessary for the shape, but ignored by design.

D on the ride back while drunk, kept talking about how amazing sisters are. She also didn’t believe that I was no contact with my sister. That hurt. I would love to have a sibling, one where I could know what’s fucking happening in their life. One that I could fucking talk to once a couple months. But instead I get to have this pseudo tragic backstory that people don’t buy. What a fun fucking party trick, I get to say how I’m no contact with my mom and my sister. And I get to say in the same joking tone I always use, because what am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to fucking break down in front of people, am I supposed to tell them that I don’t think I can be loved and that I don’t have a model for it because I didn’t have parents in my eyes, hell I didn’t fucking have a life. I fully planned to kill myself constantly, and while I’m happy that I didn’t, a large part of me wishes that I didn’t have to keep convincing myself of that fact. God, why could I not have been loved. I wish I could have a hug, but instead I’ve come up with all of these surrogate methods that can keep me from remembering how fucking nice it would be to not be so deeply alone all the time.

R asked me to yell at her to go to the gym, and the first thing I came to my head was that she should just remember how much she hates herself, because that’s what I do. There’s no one else that I can hate, because there’s no one else there. And these feelings have to go somewhere. I tell myself that hurting will make me pure. I can somehow only feel proud of myself when I’m by myself. I just refuse to believe that anyone else could see me and feel proud. Just a big bundle of shame.

I hope I die of natural causes.