… or you really like that I’m miserable.
I will explain. (Sorry.)
You know how I always worry about posting my personal struggles because I’m overwhelmed with shame and embarrassment over it? You know how I worry that those posts are annoying or whiny? You know how I worry that people will think less of me or something ridiculous like that?
It turns out those are my most popular posts.
Okay, that’s probably a lie. But I noticed that of my recent posts (like, in the last month since I rose from the dead), the ones filled with angst, depression, anxiety, relationship issues, and other assorted personal struggles get the most likes and especially the most comments. So either you like me or you like that I’m miserable. I’m not gonna touch that second one.
I suppose this means that maybe I should stop worrying so much about what I should or shouldn’t post and just do whatever the fuck I want. Whatever I need. And lately (and often) what I need is to talk about my fucked up life.
It’s the no friends thing all over again. It would be nice to text a friend and meet for coffee or visit each other. Someone to talk to. Someone to laugh with. Someone to love and support me. Maybe give me a hug. I don’t get those except occasionally from my daughter (yes, I feel the irony).
Oh, speaking of my daughter (again), she has a not-boyfriend. What I mean is that she obviously likes this boy and he obviously likes her, but they are not together. That’s good, I guess, since they are only 13. But it’s fucking adorable. He’s the new kid—transferred from a nearby town the second week of school. A cute, tall hockey player who loves to read and likes the same music by daughter listens to (he is also going to see Shawn Mendes). They are kind of perfect for each other, if that’s a thing at their age. Get this: My daughter has a bad cold, and she missed two days of school this week. Both of those days, her boy called during lunch to check on her. How cute is that? So fucking cute.
She would be furious if she knew I was telling the internet about this.
Want to know something fucked up? Well, too bad. I’m going to tell you anyway.
I think I’m living vicariously through my daughter. And that seems kind of inappropriate to me. Oh hell, it seems all kinds of wrong. I’m not sure I can explain why, but it does. I’m very careful what I say to her because I don’t want to put my own ideas in her head. I want her to have her own teenage experience—not mine.
I just miss being a teenager, I guess. Lots of people say they hated those years, but I loved them. And the crushes—especially the ones who actually like you back? That’s the best. I loved school. All the fun we had in the halls between classes… after school clubs… passing notes… school dances… and, well, any kind of math. (Nerd alert.) School was awesome. Maybe I peaked in high school. God, that’s a depressing thought. But I did love that time in my life. Oh, I was depressed then, too, but I had friends and I was always busy with one thing or another. I guess my life felt… full. Now it feels empty.
I can’t relive that time in my life. I think it’s why I have this recurring dream where I’m at my high school and I’m standing at my locker and I can’t remember the combination. I keep trying but I can’t get it open. I realized, after having this dream dozens of times, that the locker represents my youth… and I can’t have it back. I’ve had a similar dream where I’m in my college dorm and I’m locked out of my room and I can’t find my key or an RA to open my door for me. I can’t get in. Just like the locker.
I have a serious problem with living in the past. Or wishing I could have the past back, I guess, is more accurate. I want a do-over. Yes, I enjoyed school and being a teenager, but it could have been so much better. That would have been the time for me to work on my self-esteem because it would have made the years that followed so much better. It would have made today better.
I want to go back to thirteen and do it right this time. I want to put some serious effort into learning to love myself as a teenager. I want to value myself, not feel valuable only if someone else values me. Because that is how I’ve lived pretty much my whole life. As far back as I can remember, I only felt good about myself if someone else felt good about me. I think it started very young. Like, under ten years old. Maybe it’s because I have three sisters (two older, one younger). Maybe I never felt noticed, and therefore, not valuable. As I got older, it became clear to me that I was the odd one out. The oldest, the baby, the favorite, and… me. What was I? What am I? I was the misfit. The black sheep. The fuck-up. To this day, I feel isolated from them. I fake it pretty well. But I know I don’t fit in.
I know you’re all thinking that I can work on my self-esteem and self-love now. But fuck if I can figure out how to do that. Nothing works. I can’t even get myself to try some of the suggestions. Others I try but they do nothing. Most seem pointless at this stage of my life. I’ve hated myself for a lot of years. It would take a lot of years to change that hate to love. I don’t think I have enough years left. It’s too late. Yes, it really is. Yes. It is. Too late. A necessary component is missing now that I had when I was a teenager: hope.
Well, this post has jumped all over the place. I should probably have split it into multiple posts. That would have worked out well for my goal of posting more. But all of this flowed out of me together. I think I should leave it that way.
So… to sum up:
- My depression/anxiety/crisis posts seem quite popular.
- I shouldn’t worry that I’m going to drive you away by posting about those things.
- I have no friends.
- My daughter has a boy friend but not a boyfriend. And they are fucking cute.
- I am creepily living vicariously through my daughter.
- I loved high school. I wish I could go back and enjoy it again, but better this time.
- My psyche knows I can’t get my youth back, yet my mind fights itself on that.
- I hate myself.
- I am the black sheep of my family.
- My mind is alarmingly capable of running through way too many thoughts at once.
Thank you for reading. You know, if you made it to the end.
Again, living in the past—I wish I had ended up with one of these guys. I need a fucking time machine. And possibly a plastic surgeon.
p.s. — Maybe I’m working on the larger book up there ^ at the top of this post. God knows I rambled on about enough here to drive the weak-willed away…