When I’m Alone

Being alone for me, can be good or bad. It’s never really either, there is peace in being alone sometimes, but other times… I’d do anything for someone to be near me.

It’s weird, craving company, for me anyway. I never really was a social kid – I’ve said before I found it difficult to fit in and I was never really bothered about going out too much. But I don’t know, something changed in secondary school; I found myself wanting to be… accepted? Wanted? Included?

I changed my habits I guess – I stopped reading and writing so much fanfiction, stopped holing myself in my room so much – I went out, tried to talk to people, have a social life, go to the gym and lose weight. I was never… obese. Ever. I had puppy fat in primary school, and that… well, it was a sore spot for me because I got a lot of crap about it. Now of course, well, I’m left with… curves? I think? My mum calls them curves – but I still obsess slightly about how my belly pokes out a little, how my thighs jiggle so much. I’ve been trying, you know, to tone up – I’ll lay awake sometimes at night, thinking of how I could change myself to make myself better. I sometimes do exercises in bed instead of sleeping, I just can’t lay there. Being alone at night is when most of the thoughts come.

I would love to say it all worked, but there’s still things that bother me. I still don’t quite belong – but the gym, well, that was a huge help, I became just that little bit more comfortable in my own skin. I do have quite a few friends but still, I’m never part of the herd. I’m no sheep, no salmon – and maybe that’s my problem. But I’ve always taken a sort of pride in being my own person, in not just becoming another one of them – but there’s always a part of me that just wants to give in and pretend. Act like them so I won’t feel alone. Choose and extreme and stick to it.

I’m not an extreme person in… well, any sense. I’m not an adrenaline junkie, I’m not particularly athletic or interested in sports ( football to me is slick haired men shepherding a bit of leather around and spitting a lot… yeah, the spirit of it can be nice but I’ve never seen the interest), I’m not a virtuoso, I’m not amazing at art or bad at it, I’m not crazy over the latest bands, I don’t skate, I don’t drink, or smoke (nor do I want to)… I’ve been called ‘bright’ – but… it’s the sort of brightness where you just aren’t good enough to be amazing, or even really good. Call this brightness and average bright and you have me. I will always be the ‘good’ bright, never the blinding one leading the world to new discoveries.

I’m also not particularly stunning looks wise. You know, the type where… you don’t turn heads and get millions of likes on pictures and have boys fawning all over you (but I wouldn’t want that sort of responsibility, you know, turning away or dealing with all those people), but I’m not ugly to the point where I get made fun about it… too much. I guess I’m… kinda average there, too – I’m pretty, or bonny as my grandma calls me (but she’s obliged to because, y’know, she’s my grandma) – and my ex boyfriend said I was beautiful but really – I’m average. If average Joe was a woman I think it would be me.

I have no extraordinary talents of any kind, or any particular interests. Sure, I love to read and write – but making a career out of it? No – because to me writing… well, I don’t analyse it well. I hate looking for techniques, it feels like I’m taking the soul out of the art. There is a sense of awe when you look at something and you don’t know how it’s been made, or even why. And in school, it feels like they do take the soul away, or maybe it’s just me growing up. Plus, my forte really lies in creative story writing which isn’t always the way to get the grades I want.

When I write I focus on the effect of how the writing makes me feel rather than considering how other people would read it – I don’t think about technique when writing because when I write it just… it just comes from me. And breaking down writing… I don’t like doing it. I don’t like thinking about writing in such a cold sense, of how the author purposely used this metaphor to create this theme… I just… I just want to feel it. I feel the words, I look for the meanings. I like to believe every writer writes with a careful passion – and that passion, that love of the words just dies if you know the technicalities behind them. Reading loses some of it’s wonder when you know you are being manipulated by the author to feel a certain way. I want to believe that the writer felt that themselves and the words just turned out that way – they felt where that comma should be and why that word fits so beautifully.
I guess you could say I have a love of writing.

But really, thinking about it, I’m pretty boring. I am. I am a boring person. I’ve read all that above again and… well, that’s my conclusion. I am a boring individual. There is nothing special about me – I am perfectly average. I don’t think I have an ego problem either – people have said I sell myself short, but it never feels that way. I feel like I’m being totally honest with myself when I say I’m nothing special. Even though I feel disappointed in knowing that, I know it’s the truth.

You know, this.. rant? Really did start out with the intention of telling you, whoever you are, how I feel when I’m alone. I’m alone right now, and it was the alone where it chokes you and makes you feel queasy. So I came on here to tell you about it – I guess it doesn’t feel so bad but all I want to do is keep writing. I think writing is my escape from the feelings I get.

A huge thank you, to the people that responded to my first post, your words did reach me and they did mean something to me. I felt what you were saying as I read, and I had a little moment of relief, just a few seconds of reprieve – thank you. But know, I am not doing this for the response, I’m not doing this to feel accepted by anyone or gain anyone’s pity or sympathy. That’s why I probably won’t ever talk to anyone properly on here, you know? This place is anonymous, and I like that. I am just another one with a few problems, a few worries, and a wish to die that varies in intensity over time. There is no… mask in the sense that I have to hide who I am. I can say whatever I want, but you just won’t have a name or a face to put it to.

Maybe it’s not strictly allowed but… doing a blog sort of thing on here doesn’t sound too bad to me. Like an internet journal, and I don’t have to hide the pages in my room – no one who I know would think to look here, because no one knows I feel this way.
TheStranger17