I live in fear of being boring.
Always have, always will.
But what makes me interesting?
Is it my golden hair? The way it has different shades of blonde? The amount of volume and curls it has?
Is it my olive coloured eyes? The way they change colour depending on my mood?
Is it my body? All the small, white stretch marks that cover my arms and legs and stomach and breasts?
Is it my crooked, yellow-ish teeth? The way all my teeth appear when a genuine smile emerges?
Is it my obsession with my own feet? The way I call my toes little pigs?
Is it my rusty voice? The way I can’t reach high or low notes?
Is it my stupid humour and my idiotic jokes?
Is it my interest in odd movies and mainstream cinema?
Is it the fact that I’m a nerd that loves quirky things?
Is it the fact that I’m a triglot?
Is it my heritage?
Is it me?
Is it my disease?
Right now, what makes me interesting is the disease that is eating me up from the inside out. The illness that is entering my bloodstream and spreading throughout my body. It’s the thing that makes me think about death and small, precise cuts and ways to end my life. It’s the thing that makes me question my existence, the thing that makes me want to cry every drop of water that my body contains, the thing that makes me want to scream in the middle of the night, the little, big voice inside my head that whispers “take all the pills, it’s easier this way”, the thing that makes me write a suicide letter because it says I can’t go on.
I’m interesting because I’m sick.
I love my life!
I wake up every day with a smile on my face.
I love when the sun comes out and kisses my cheeks and warms my heart. It feels great!
I love to see people and greet them with the most cheerful words I can utter.
“Good morning, sir, have a nice day!”
“Hello, my beautiful friends! Don’t you love to have the opportunity to experience another day on this amazing planet?”
I love to bounce down the street, light-hearted, without a care in the world.
Every day, when I get out of bed, I sing a beautiful melody that fills the air around me with a blissful ecstasy of wonder and delight.
I even love the foggy mornings, the ones when you can’t see a thing. I love to imagine the pleasant world that is beneath all that mistiness.
So many possibilities that surround us every single day!
There is nothing you can’t do, because every day is a new shot at hope and optimism!
after a day of smiles and castles in the air and being upbeat and intoxicatingly perky and sunny,
I get home.
I close myself in my room.
The perkiness goes away.
I’m not the quirky, wise cracker jokester that makes stupid puns anymore.
I’m no longer the funny, cheerful girl.
I’m not happy.
The walls of my mind start to close in on me.
I become moody and rude and low-spirited.
I start to cry because my body wants me to.
My demons drag me down into the dumps and beat me up with all my insecurities and anxieties.
The panic attacks are overwhelming and make me feel insane.
Insane. Am I insane? Am I?
The world is no longer a shade of yellow and green and sugar and everything nice.
When I’m alone, the world turns black and grey and austere.
I am miserable in my own prison.
I want it to stop. I need it to stop, but I don’t know how to.
I want to breathe, but my lungs can’t expand any longer; my throat is filled with lumps of sorrow and pain.
I weep because I want to sleep.
I am physically tired, but my mind won’t let me sleep.
I cry and I cry and I cry a little bit more.
My soul is ripped into pieces.
My self-esteem? Never had one.
Self-confidence? Not a part of my vocabulary
Today they gave me pills to fight it all.
They make me feel drowsy.
My mind is wondering, it’s terrifying.
I’m petrified with what is going to happen.
I’m terror-stricken with the fact that I might never be okay, that I’m never going to be normal.
I’m not happy.
I’m clinically depressed.
But that’s about to change.
I've been scrolling on my facebook feed for a week. Sort of.
I've been binge watching a show that I've never developed an interest befor.
I've been eating everything but animals for almost a week.
I hate being on vacation so much, but I have no fucking clue what to do when I'm in school. I get bored, wishing I was in vacation so I can be bored and wishing I was in school.
I don't even know what the fuck I want for my life. Do I want to be a journalist? Do I want to be some kind of artist? Do I want to be a scientist or something? Do I want a 9 to 5 job?
I don't even like to hang out with people that much, I'd rather stay inside and think about my shit.
I have an episode of Girls to watch.
My body is killing itself. Bacteria crawled, somehow, to my inside and are now making a home to their relatives. And now that I'm the host of this bacterial family, I'm only given a few hours per day without feeling them installing a new room, redecorating, eating, building a tunnel or destroying another space, which for me, translates as a painful needle piercing through my skin, making me tear up because the pain is too strong. This has a major consequence to a normal human being's daily life: productivity. As much as I'd like to, I'm not capable of being productive when I'm in pain. I physically can't. And this is not very good when you're a senior at high school and have to study everyday to, at least, keep up. But it could be worse.
I could be homeless, and I would have to find a place to sleep when the gods are crying, and I would have to beg for money to buy a loaf of bread, and I would feel the cold weather on my skin because my clothes have holes or are too thin and old, and I would try to pick my life up but couldn't because no one trusts a hobo. And the pain of wanting a roof over my head and food to eat and not be able to would be must worse than the pain I feel right now.
I could be in a country that is at war, and I would cover my ears at night to try to block the sounds of guns firing, bombs blasting, people screaming and soldiers dying, and I would always have the feeling of fear because I, too, could die at any point, all I needed to do was cross the street, and I would also not have much food nor water because it is all used by the hospitals treating the wounded. And the pain of being a torned up nation with no possible future would be worse than the pain I feel right now.
I could be living in a dictatorship, and I would not have any type of freedom of thought or speech, and I would not be able to find food in the local supermarkets because the government is blocking all the food, because all the factories are shuting down because the government wants to, and I would not feel safe going outside of my home because I might get robbed and killed or robbed and kidnapped or robbed and raped, and I would not be able to change the government because during elections, the votes would not be counted at all and a result would be made up, and I would not be able to leave the country because all airports are closed. And the pain of having to leave the country that I know is perfect and I love the most simply because a guy ruined it would be bigger than the pain I feel right now.
I could have a deadly illness, and I would have to spend humongous amounts of money to buy big pills and small pills and capsules of all colours to try to diminish the pain, and I would have to go through expensive, dangerous treatment to try to stop the disease, and I would have to quit my job because I would be physically weak to do anything, and I would become alienated by my friends, collegues, family, and everyone that knew me because I would be sick, and I would change: I would get thinner and thinner and thinner, and my skin would lose its colour, and I would lose strength, and everyday when I woke up, patches of hair would be on my pillow, and I would start coughing more and more. And I would try to make the best of my days, but people would stare at me like I was some sort of monster, and I would start to stay at home more and more, and I would sleep more, and more patches of hair would be on my pillow, and my partner would not be able to deal with my disease and he would leave me,and I would stop to taking my medicine and stop going to the hospital to get my treatments because I wouldn't be feeling better, and my life would be my illness, and I would try to do something but I couldn't, and I would start coughing blood, and my hands would start shaking and my legs trembling, and I would fall on the cold, hard floor, alone, with a tear on my face, almost lifeless. And the pain of dying is much bigger than the pain I'm feeling right now.
But I could also be a normal girl, in a normal country, with a normal family. I would go to school and play with my friends. I would be in a loving family, with mum and dad loving each other and myself. I would grow up with the same group of loyal friends. I would become a normal adolescent, having my rebelious stage, with an acne-filled body and a discontent personality. I would grow out of that. I would graduate along side my life-long friends. I would leave home to go to the near-by university. I would also graduate. I would work at a 9-to-5 job. I would marry a guy that I would have met at work. We would have children and, later on, grandchildren. And my life would be the old, monotonous thing, until the very end. And the pain of being a regular, normal, boring person when I could prevent it would be the biggest pain of all.
Maybe I'm overreacting, maybe it's the bacteria turning my body into a palace.
I don't want life to randomly kick me into the adult I never wanted to become.
It's Saturday, mid-October, around 7pm. I'm feeling under the weather and it seems like the weather itself is also feeling under the weather. The bright sun that was flooding the sky a couple of days ago is now somewhere else. Everything is slightly darker today. The sky is a light shade of grey, the same shade of grey that an overly used fork would have. I strongly believe that my brain is fighting my skull, that it wants to come out as soon as possible. My vocal chords are in love with each other and they want to be together more than anything. My nose is probably hungover, it's vomiting green goo to the outside and it's helping the lovers.
Outside my house, the wind is slowly blowing the trees' leaves, making them dance like they're in their mid twenties and have nothing better to do. The big pieces of fluff in the sky are bumping into each other, they must be in a hurry. You can't see a thing on the street, maybe an occasional dog running after a passing bike, but rather that, nothing. The houses that surround my own are filled with people drinking alcohol with their friends, small kids playing, grown adults doing house chores, dogs and cats sleeping, grandmas nitting, twenty-somethings studying, food boiling and water running.
This might be a small town, but it is filled with busy people. They, I mean, we, are always in a rush. We have to go to school and learn and study and get tested and learn more and study more and get tested again and then get a diploma and leave town so we can learn and study and get tested once more. We have to go to our jobs so we can work to get paid to spend and then work more and earn the same and spend the double and then work three times more and earn the same and spend the triple. We have to go to the doctor to get tested and tested and tested and even more tested so we can get a paper that says that we have to buy small, white discs to get better, but in fact, we don't even know what's wrong with us. We have to go to the gym so we can lose weight, but we're only showing to others that we can do it, when we actually can't. We have to go to the bank only to see that our bank account has two digits, max. We have to go to the hair salon to pretend that we want to feel prettier, when we only go because we love to gossip about people from this stupid, fucking town. This might be a small town, but it behaves like a big one.
At the moment, I wish I wasn't here. Reading a book or watching a movie won't do the trick, right now. I don't want to be transported to a magical land with fairies and dragons, even if it sounds amazing. I don't want to be teleported to Sweden, to be next to a head hunter either. I want to, physically, get out of here. I want to buy an overly priced airplane ticket, to drive to the airport, even if it takes me three hours, to get lost in a structure that I simply do not understand, to go through unnecessary but mandatory procedures, to try to find my airplane's name, to wait a stupidly amount of time, to finally enter the bloody aircraft, to get to listen to the air hostesses say the same thing every time, to get excited that the plane is lifting off, to fall asleep next to a disgusting person, to have a small child behind me kicking and screaming and crying and kicking and screaming louder because mommy didn't bring his nintendo, to go to the small toilet whose system I still don't get, to wonder if my poop is just flying around the atmosphere, to close my eyes when the plane shakes like crazy, to wake up when we're finally landing, to get out of the plane, to wait a stupidly amount of time, to go through unnecessary but mandatory procedures, to get lost because I don't know where I need to pick up my bag, to finally pick up my shit and leave the airport and, at last, breathe the Japanese air, or the Australian air, or the American air, or the English air, or the African air, or heck, even the Artic air. I just need to be somewhere else that is not this.
I want to feel the warm ocean covering my feet, the sun reaching my green, tiny eyes and kissing my pale skin. I want to feel overwhealmed when I see the Empire State, or the Big Ben, or the Golden Gate Bridge, or the Eiffel Tower, or the Pyramids, or the Stonehenge, or the Great Wall. I want to be able to photograph everything I see, because it's incredibly interesting or pretty or wonderful or all of the above. I want to meet people and talk to them in a language that isn't my own, to feel my soul growing up, to learn new things, to feel love. I want to listen to new music and feel new things and eat new food. I want to try stuff. I don't want to die a stupid ass bitch.
I want to fall back in love with myself. That's it.