Perhaps Someone Like Me Doesn't Deserve Friends

I do not know how to express my pain.

I never learned how to perform suffering to gather sympathy, the way some people do - those who make a great show of things they never actually endured, like an actor.

They bang on drums and doors to ensure every eye is on them. Imagine someone seeing a few strands of hair on the floor after a shower and screaming as if their very scalp had been pulled away.

At least they receive sympathy, even if it's something they've cheated out of others.

Because I don't make a scene, I am forced to suffer more through disbelief and accusation.

I learned early to minimize everything: the sound that comes from me, my reactions, my pain, and my emotions.

I never had the privilege of appearing as anything other than pathetic; to do so would draw the ire of so many people. If I don't look miserable enough for their liking, they find reasons to attack me.

I learned to become a gray rock- emotionless and invisible. I make sure to look blank even when I am just feeling ordinary, and I bury it completely if I feel even the slightest flicker of happiness.

I don't know how else to explain it: even being neutral isn't enough. I have to be completely void of expression - because I think, in the end, no one wants to slap a dead face.

I don't have to hide when I'm upset; the people around me actually seem to prefer my upside-down smile.

When I am in pain, I crawl into a corner and keep it inside. I dare not cry out loud or sob.

I have learned that while some people enjoy inciting pain in me, they despise it if my cries bring attention or sympathy from others.

And so, in silence I suffered. I'm allowed to be hurt but I'm not allowed to be heard.

Even if I were scalded by a hot iron, I would only flinch. I keep the scream inside. I dare not yelp a single bit.

On an everyday basis, even my sneezes make no sound.

The truth is, I am so low right now.

I hesitate to use the word depressed because it has been used as a tool for defamation against me. I've been accused of faking my illness, being told that "this isn't what mental health issues look like."

All these insinuations come from the same source. Every time that person's lips moved, poison flows.

I am told that true depression is what that person went through - the one who made a great show of it, like someone carefully constructing an alibi.

I don't know how they did it, and I have no idea how to be like them.

Photo by Simran Sood on Unsplash

This heaviness comes in waves.

Most of the time, I can pull myself out of it, but lately, the triggers have been constant. I have been fighting hard since the Lunar New Year.

I didn't throw myself into the celebrations; I tried to keep a low profile, hoping not to be seen by those who wish me dead. I couldn't stay hidden enough.

It feels like I've been fighting Death ever since.

I've tried everything: counseling, self-care, and working hard. But I keep spiraling.

Now, I'm operating on the absolute minimum energy for survival for only the barest necessities: eating, personal hygiene, and clicking away at surveys for work.

No frills. No extra.

I might be still breathing but I'm not living.

I haven't even been able to write until this moment because I couldn't find the words or spell them out.

And there is no conversation.

I was so depleted that I couldn't function socially. I couldn't have a meaningful talk, and it made me sound like I was too busy to make an effort.

I am so ashamed of myself for not being able to be a decent person or a friend.

I tried to let a friend know I was thinking of them, but the more I tried, the worse I made it.

Poor human - to have a shitty friend like me. A sick loser who can't even manage her own head.

Maybe people like me shouldn't have friends.

I hide in my cave and only emerge once in a while. It sounds like a fair-weather friend, but it's the opposite.

I am the friend who runs away when the storm comes - because the storm comes from within me, and I don't want it to hit someone else.

Since realizing what a poor friend I've been, I can't bring myself to talk to anyone.

Every time I pick up the phone or try to write an email, I end up deleting it. I can't find the right words, so I find none. Everything else remains unread or unreplied.

Replying to a message requires a self that I currently cannot find.

Why keep up the act of being a normal person with friends when all I do - no matter how well-intentioned - is create misunderstanding and hurt?

There might be this misunderstanding that I'm too good for them, or too busy, independent, and successful to need anyone. I wish that were the case.

If I were acting that way, it would mean I was doing better - that I had simply turned snobbish. But the reality is far less glamorous.

I'm at my breaking point.

I have this desperate urge to cut off all connections to the world, yet I'm tethered to it.

Because I can't fully disappear, every incoming message and expectation feels like a million needles under my skin. It's driving me nuts; it's too much noise for someone trying so hard to be silent.

I probably don't need to explain any of this, because it would all just sound like excuses.

Being a recluse is what suits me.

©Britt H.

Thank you for reading this.

More about the person behind the writing in My Introductory Post