Rumination 19: I Am Not Okay

The worst part of anxiety is confirmation bias. Thoughts like: “You’re a burden,” “No one likes you,” “You’re only included out of pity,” “If they could they would cut ties with you completely,” would be easy to squash if they weren’t seemingly confirmed by the people they’re about.

More than likely, it’s just me reading too much into things that can be explained simply. Being alone makes time seem longer and shorter than it is. Unfortunately, I can’t convince my brain of that.

I don’t like talking about my problems all of the time. It makes me feel like I’m expecting pity or help, but I’m not, I just want a sympathetic ear. I hate being so unsure that it cripples me. That I’m a burden on anyone that I care about. I hate feeling unwanted, that I’m being put up with, that in reality things would be better without me there. They usually are.

I’m standing in place and not for lack of trying, but because sheer force of will can only take you so far. I still keep pretending I have the talent to break through the brick wall I’m behind. I know that if I don’t have faith no one else will. No one will be giving me reassurances for the existence of whatever abilities I imagine I have. If I could write, if I could create art, if anything I did was any good at all, I wouldn’t still be here after all of these years.

I’m only good when my name isn’t on it.

I wish the confirmation bias wasn’t there. But it is. The worst part is that I’m going to post this and receive hollow kindnesses for a temporary high. None of the people I feel closest to will read this simply because they don’t have the time and if they do it’ll just combine with all of the other issues they have with me.

I’m a temporary friend, only worth having around in a place, but not worth investing the effort. I keep muscling my way into places I don’t belong with people who don’t want me there. I feel like I’m keeping the ones that do want me around from being with the people that would make them happiest. That I’m an unwanted add-on.

My notifications are filled with people trying to impress the friends I’ve been lucky to make because I’m not interesting enough to stand on my own.

I keep saying “scream into the void until you hear something back,” but it feels like I’m in an empty warehouse and the sounds I hear are only my own echoes.

At home I get to deal my family. My mother does the best she can, more so over the last few years, because she sees what not writing does to me. My siblings just don’t seem to have the time for me. My father has never supported anything I’ve done; his constant rhetoric is that it’s simply not my destiny. People like me are meant to marry and have children, that’s the only currency I’m to leave behind. I wasn’t born for greatness. Any little thing I try to do to prove him wrong falls apart and I get slapped back down into my place. Reminded that he’s right. He doesn’t see that he’s being cruel. He sees himself protecting me by reminding me of the harsh realities of the world. All of my failures validate his point.

So spare me your words of encouragement. Spare me your wisdom, because you’re on the mountain looking down.

It hurts to try when you lose every single time.

I wish I could stop.

Have sensible goals that don’t require overwhelming outside support for even an ounce of success.

My talent is a farce and so am I.

But I’m going to keep trying anyway.

Stay good and keep transmitting