I’ve a lot of saved half-written drafts, maybe because I’m always self-censoring, worried about people knowing that I’ve written about them. But I guess I want to write for myself now, and whoever happens to come across this, great.
I think that I’ve always been the victim of a negative narrative that I’ve crafted on my own, and it has become so much a part of me that I have come to accept it as the truth. I feel as though I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t invisible, to guys in particular. Even if there’s no reason for them to dislike me, I convince myself that they do; that I have some sort of mysterious male-species-repelling vibe. And I repeat over and over again, I am a girls’ girl; I can make friends with girls instantly (most of the time) but…
And then all these feelings bleed into things I do, and I twist things to fit that narrative. I look at my friends’ pictures, or comb through other girls’ pictures, and feel like I can’t ever be like them. I don’t know why I want to be. I guess it all goes back to wanting to be wanted, by as many people as possible. To feel accepted, desired, loved.
We can flip the script, I know that. I made it happen myself. I was angry and often felt friendless. I was usually described as weird, quiet, snobbish, serious. I let my true extroverted self burst free, and now when I meet someone new, I’m fairly confident that even if we don’t end up friends, small talk is no sweat.
So why is it that until now I can’t shake off this icky feeling that makes me feel less-than?
And Sharms asked when her hopeless romantic friend who once believed in The One became such a cynic…so I told her it was because of someone who was still in love with someone else. Another way of switching the narrative – to something closer to the truth. I used to tell people that he didn’t want to do long distance, and I’d just shrug and laugh and say “I mean I get it, it’s hard. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway.” But that was just so that I didn’t have to admit the harsher truth. That he didn’t care enough because he was still stuck in the past. & in a sense that made me feel like I wasn’t enough either. It only amplified the insecurities that had always existed. Stories of boys flying halfway across the world to be with girls they’d only just met made me think that those things only happened to other girls, not me. I wondered if I would ever leave such an impact on someone that they would miss me for years after.
So I changed, again. I decided that I was sick of portraying myself as the naive, innocent girl who was waiting for her true love. Maybe true love would come someday. Maybe not. But I would play the game the way others did, since they seemed to be winning.
Usman actually asked if I’d just come out of a bad relationship when we were still in the talking/hanging-out-as-friends-but-not-really phase. Actually I’d just hit my lowest point barely a month ago. Let someone treat me so badly that I haven’t actually told anyone the details. But it doesn’t matter because that person is not important, and I’ve pretty much forgotten everything. I guess my walls were up because I was afraid to hope once again, only to be told “I’m sorry I can’t be what you want me to be”. To have to understand that sometimes you not only have to compete with living, breathing humans but ghosts – memories, flashbacks, a love that once was.
So. Here we are. Here I am. Taking things slowly, learning what it’s like to be ‘normal’ for the first time. Doing things most have done ages before, a million times over. Still battling those demons, and trying to be open about them. Hoping that they will go away if I keep feeding my brain new stories. Ones that remind me that I’m loveable and fine and that it doesn’t matter that everyone else has had so many ‘somethings’ before. It doesn’t make them any better or more worthy – see, even as I typed that, a voice inside me fought against it.
To a whole new story, not a chapter.