323: Internal Turmoil (SOC)

323: Internal Turmoil (SOC) 

I haven’t done these in a while. I need to get it off my shoulders, my chest, wherever it’s hanging on to so I can be free again. The truth shall set me free.

This turmoil, hardship, trials and tribulations are starting to surface. With enough time alone and limited contact with some friends, this kind of thing happens. The niceness gets stripped away by my demons. I am evil. I’m shit at being a human. I don’t even know what I’m doing most of the time. Fake it ’til you make it? I don’t know. I’m just such a shit human. No one ever told me that but I didn’t need to hear it to know that I’m not a great person. People will lie to me and tell me I’m good and I shouldn’t worry, that I have nothing to worry about but that is not true. How can I not worry when I know I’ve hurt countless people and more or less gotten away with it short-term until I have to face the consequences of what I’ve done? I can’t handle being in my own skin anymore. Maybe that’s why I created all these personalities so I can get away from myself. Well, I’m not really getting away from myself, because I’ve left a part of the real me in all the personalities. They all have the same name as me, just slightly different character traits. Like I’m writing a story, and I can be that character if I wanted to. Side-effect of being able to imagine and write? I don’t know. I hate what I have become. I don’t know if anyone else has noticed, but I’ve started to rot. My personality, so vibrant, vivacious and the life of the party, now a former shell of who I aspired to be, just alone, in my room, fighting myself and the inevitability of the final exams exactly a year from now. I hate myself. I really do. I wish I could be like Melissa, the perfect character I created with a name that isn’t mine because I do hate my name. There’s something missing with the name I possess, but nothing is wrong with Melissa. She is perfect. She does well in all her classes. She has friends she can depend on. She might even have a boyfriend she can turn to when her friends fail her. She has everything I do not. She has no demons. She is who I want to be, but never can, because I have my own problems with my friends. What am I doing wrong with them? What am I doing wrong with myself? Is it that, in my search for the perfect friend – who truly understands me, relates to me and can talk to me and agrees on some things with me – I have forgotten about the friends I already have? It seems to me that I have. I realise that I must accept the fact that maybe I will never find that perfect friend. I have to accept that maybe the perfect friend for me doesn’t exist. When I look at who my friends are now, I realise that I don’t know much about them at all. Only basic things, like simple common interests and whatnot. But I don’t know who they truly are, and that’s what terrifies me. Well, how can I truly know them if they don’t know themselves?? Junior school philosophy elective is getting back at me again. Those lessons I took for granted, but will stay with me forever. I miss philosophy class. I understood what was going on, but I never really applied what I learned to the real world. I guess now that the real world is edging closer, the confusing philosophy lessons start to make sense. I might give Machiavelli’s The Prince another read. It’s not even that long. I should have read it when I had the chance to. I’m a terrible human being. I lament, and grieve, and struggle to comprehend why I can’t just be a simple human. Maybe I can’t, because I’m so complex that sometimes I can’t figure myself out. How frustrating it must be for others to deal with me when I don’t want to be dealt with and make that known or not known. Some days I lowkey wish I could end it all, but that would mean being selfish, and I gave up being selfish when I was younger. I learned to compromise, give people what they want, teach them that I come second so I can take care of myself first before they ask me anything. Or something like that. It’s probably a lot simpler than that, but I like to make it sound grandiose, as if my life matters somewhat in this vast, expansive, seemingly endless cosmos we probably share with more advanced life forms than us. Maybe that’s why aliens won’t visit us. Because complex human beings like me are too fucking hard to figure out. Because you can live a life of simplicity if you just don’t give a damn about others and worry about yourself. Which I can’t do, because I invest my whole existence into everything I shouldn’t be.

 

~ Serendipitous

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