For years I believed that if I was hotter my struggles wouldn’t be neglected as much. Now I have run out of ways to prove myself wrong.
I have spelled it out many many times it’s getting pathetic. The threat of a pedophile neighbor every fucking day for 6 years, an emotionally abusive boyfriend in college, a dead-end job that eats me wholly by putting me as the prodigal newbie, a dead dad, a family scattered and in-debted, high-functioning depression — let me mope about my sorrows tonight.
Yet none of it was enough. I went to the movies alone, ran to books, went to therapy alone, and figured everything out alone. I can’t trust anyone with all these heavy burdens because I feel like there’s no space for anything but lighthearted fun and happiness. I kept waiting for something that seemed to come on a free flow like cold refreshing tap beer for everyone but me. I’ve always romanticized being the only one, being an exception, but maybe my teenage prayers weren’t specific enough.
I respected friendship traditions, I tried to understand, I held space for my own heavy stuff because there was no space for it anywhere else, and settled for what was for me, became “secretly” suicidal. I stopped demanding, I broke down in secret because I didn’t want to steal someone else’s youth that was meant to be enjoyed and full of happiness. When it was all over I was left empty-handed and still the same as I was years ago, minus some good fun. I’ve spent years waiting at the bench and seeing people get the ball; porridge when they’re sick, and movie dates complete with pick-up and a ride back home, ensuring that they’re safe from harm and eat something today. I concluded that those things weren’t meant for me and never will, and now I live my days with whispers of proof that I was right all along. Maybe it was because I’m always the biggest in the room, maybe because I can’t dress my body shape, or style my hair properly. Maybe because people can’t see it with their eyes. I was in a constant fight with myself, and I lost most days.
When it was my turn to hold space for other people’s struggle I shut down. I refused to give something I was deprived of, so I left.
When I decide to trust someone again, I hope they will prove me wrong. But until I do, please don’t give me hope.
Don’t give me hope that I can count on you. Don’t give me hope that you would ask how my therapy is going. Don’t give me hope that I can tell you how I secretly feel without being judged or being held accountable. Don’t give me hope that I can show you how wrecked I am without having to make a secret Instagram account. Don’t yap about fairness and take pride in being “fair aja aku mah” when you can’t treat someone you claimed to love fairly. Don’t let me do the things I love the most alone because you’d rather do it with other people. Don’t hold space for everyone and leave a tiny corner for me. Don’t make me feel alone when you’re inches apart sleeping next to me, please.
I have let myself bear with it for years, and I don’t think I can take any more of it.
