hi again.
some confessions weighing heavy from over the last few months
it’s been months since my last published article.
i both am sorry and am not. this is my public journal and i promised myself when this started that this would be a safe place for me. a safe place does not demand i come back to it. it only holds its arms open when i do decide to return of my own volition.
deciding to post my words publicly takes a lot of me. it’s just easier not to notice when i have a lot to say. and for the past few months, i haven’t had much to say, but i’ve been thinking enough to become declared a deranged version of Socrates.
however, unlike the philosopher, i’ve written a lot in my personal journal. confessions, we’ll call them, because to label the filled pages as anything else would be like calling Ted Bundy a womanizer.
of course i haven’t murdered anyone, but the admissions still would make the average person pause and wonder if they really came from a teenage girl. …maybe also strongly suggest to said girl to get a therapist.
regardless, i think i’ve collected myself enough to share some of those thoughts with you all.
so from the terrace of a building in another country, i confess to you the following:
i think i’m kind of fucked up. in more of the subtle ways. the way certain judgements form from first impressions, my nature to self-isolate, my ability to overthink and spiral—all of it leads me to believe that i don’t really think the expected way a person should.
i own a morbid curiosity. i like to wonder about the darker sides to life and what happens in the world. there is a thin line with this one if i were to contemplate it too much, but i’d like to believe that it’s much of the same way individuals become fascinated with serial killers and psychos, so much so to the point where they earn a full living from running true crime podcasts. except for me, it all happens in my head and i earn no money from my grim speculation.
i’m detached. this one i’m not sure how to feel about and i’m still sort of coming to terms with it. i realize that i don’t miss people like i’m supposed to. i don’t exactly get homesick, nor do i ever feel an overwhelming urge to express my love to those around me. it feels awkward to say i love you so casually, and i cringe at the thought of hugging people (important to note that i’m adverse to casual hugs and touches—i adore tight hugs though those are extremely selective).
i’m narcissistic and selfish. this one isn’t really too big of a surprise, i’ve admitted it before on my substack. i’m don’t feel guilty for admitting this however. i think any ambitious person should be selfish with the life they want and self-absorbed enough to chase after it, ignoring other peoples’ opinions.
i put people on pedestals. this is an old habit that i’m trying to get rid of. people are just people and to put them on a higher level than you in your mind is a disrespect to them. why are they being held to standards that they don’t even know about? treat them as another human, as a friend, or even just a kind stranger.
and lastly, i feel alone. this isn’t part of the list, because it feels the heaviest. it’s been the a feeling that has weighed down on me for so long and it feels as if it’s only growing heavier over time.
it’s terrifying to admit because logically, it’s not true at all. i have great friends, a loving family, and an exciting life, especially at the age that i am. what’s scary is that i don’t know how to get rid of this feeling. it’s unpleasant, and it comes and goes in waves similar to cramps on a period. always there, but some parts of the week are worse than others. sometimes, you’re curled up on your bedroom floor hyperventilating and begging yourself to stop spiraling. you tell yourself you’re being dramatic and to snap out of whatever it is you’re convincing yourself you’re going through. but then the pain becomes worse, spreading outwards through your limbs to the very tips of your fingers, and suddenly all you want is to be numb for a while.
but then eventually, you find yourself quiet with wet cheeks and your breath slowly returning to something normal. so you get up and continue on with your day, hoping that your eyes don’t grow puffy from what just happened. because god forbid if someone asks ‘are you okay?’ and you don’t just have a bad answer, but you don’t have any answer at all. because how do you answer a question that you’ve been asking yourself every day?
but of course, that kind of thing only happens on the worst days.
the good days aren’t exactly better, per se, just settled in a softer ache of longing that i’ve learned how to ignore. the better days involve a lot of silent acceptance. they involve busying myself with activities and work and scrolling social media until i’m too tired to do anything but sleep.
not exactly healthy but i’m trying.
i don’t know what i wanted to achieve with this post. i think i just missed substack and the community. i’m glad that this won’t reach much of an audience anyway.
for those who have read this far, thank you endlessly as always.
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thank you endlessly for your support. ☆