When I was 15 all I wanted was to be wanted. Platonically, romantically, emotionally. I was going through that angsty, coarse period of teenage bullshit and it did not spare me.
I had friends, but those I felt the need to compete with. I was the lesser of the pretty. I was chubby. I didn’t come from money. I couldn’t relate. I wasn’t this. I was that. No one really understood me– which I guess still stands to this day. No one really understands me now, except maybe a few people. I thought I had to impress people, I thought I had to make them want me and work harder to make them stay in my life. I had to put a mask on to shield who I really was, so they couldn’t see the actual me. I pretended like I knew what it was like to be effortlessly cool. I used the money I had received after my dad died for shit I didn’t need to impress people I didn’t really even know. I wanted so badly to be someone I was not meant to be in a world that suggests we conform to one standard. The friends I did have made fun of me behind my back, but respectfully also to my face. I didn’t have their body type, my parents didn’t have money, I wasn’t in high school teams or clubs or whatever. I made decent grades but I wasn’t an honor student. I was different.
It pains me to say out loud that I looked for company in people I thought could fill the void the events in my life had given me.
At 17 I constantly felt the need to have a boyfriend because I didn’t have a father figure in my life and I needed a guy to appreciate me for who I was, though that never happened because I was in high school and nothing in high school ever really lasts. I wish I knew then what I know now. I wish I knew better.
At 18 I opened credit cards and racked up a balance on expensive things that also didn’t fill the void I knew I had. I thought name brand items would impress my friends. It didn’t. I didn’t know that I could have friends that would love me for me and not for the shit I was wearing. Who knew?
At 19 I met someone that appreciates me and gives me the love that I know I deserve, every single day. But that wasn’t the cure. The void was still there, the anxiety still driven, the hole dug deeper. I tried pretending like it didn’t bother me. It did. So I tried medicine, I tried Xanax and Prozac as per the suggestion of my doctor and ended up tired and zombie-like. I still haven’t figured this one out. Maybe I never will.
At 20 I realized that there are no answers and sometimes life just has a way of doing it’s own thing and maybe you’re just supposed to go with the flow. Or maybe you’re not. Who the hell knows?
The void I keep trying to mend is perhaps meant to be there to remind me that I am real, I exist, and nothing could possibly change the past. Maybe I should stop trying to fill it and start trying to embrace it for what it is.