Kindly disregard in 2 days…For all our sakes.
This evening I realised I have been spending so much time trying to achieve what I perceive as happiness that I have not noticed at all how unhappy I actually am. I have been doing the things I think I am supposed to do: forcing myself into situations I am usually uncomfortable in, forcing smiles, and humor, and interest and just being someone I think people can like enough to be friends with. Many busy, “fun” things. Yet somehow, very little memories I care to look back on, much less be genuinely excited about.
I have not been excited about anything happening in my own life in so long. I feel like everything AND everyone is disappointing.
I did a reflection thing around the end of 2019 (last year) while I was contemplating whether or not to post about Gambia or my favourite memories from the last 10 years, and came up with a complete blank on any meaningful thing that had happened to me during the year. The narrative I had pushed to myself so much of my stay in Gambia was that all of the hardship I endured from people, all of the disappointing relationships that started in a fiery burst and fizzled out just as quickly because of no one’s fault in particular, meant something. That it was a necessary lesson on tolerance and patience that some divine series of unfortunate events was teaching me. My last time in Gambia was for my graduation. On the eve of, I attended a dinner thing near the beach and I remember afterwards, while we conversed at the shore, I suddenly burst into what I thought then were happy tears. Looking back I think it was more an “I can’t believe this shit is all over” thing and less happy tears. There is no point being in denial. Gambia was exhausting. Now, I look back and I realise 2019 was just what 2018 was, but worse. It was not some eureka moment bound to change my life forever. Just one part of the bleak grey existential conundrum my life has been since 2016. My struggles continued. My genuine attempts at change succeeded in some part and mostly failed in the larger picture. I disappointed people; I hurt people; I struggled to build long term, meaningful relationships; I found out that “weird” was an adjective usually used to describe me to people (and it hurt? Which is strange? Like, I thought I already knew that. Turns out being described as weird stings a lot less when it is you saying that about yourself and not some random person you have no relationship with. Also, it does NOT mean cool and, or quirky) I was lonely more times than I could count, and I found myself unsatisfied with myself because everywhere I turned, even amongst friends, I was surrounded by people telling me I didn’t dress well enough, or act a man enough, or eat well enough, or act a good friend enough. No, 2019 was not some learning curve. It was more shit on heaping shit. I had no peace where I was cursed to call home, and even outside of it, I lived on eggshells and discontentment with myself. I was always trying to fix myself, yet never really fixing anything.
I am in 2020 still the same person I was some 4 years ago, if not worse. I realize now, my experiences these past few years have not taught me to be a better person. If anything, they have taught me to distrust people, to hate people, and to express my hurt in passive aggressive ways to people who try to sell me the mistruth of actual human affection. All this under layers of hello, how are you doings and an endless self imposed obligation to be normal enough.
I do not think I like people.
The more I think about it, the more I deep how being vulnerable and open to allowing people inside of my life has really gotten me nowhere. There are no real friends, just people you are convenient for/are convenient for you until you no longer are. It is either that or I do not have the qualities requisite to be good enough friends with anyone. Not the kind that matters any way. This is not self-pitying. It is fact. People I considered friends have put me up for discussion on whatsapp groups and roasted me to hell and high water with strangers. People I shared intimate details of my life with and was there for have chosen others who did way less for them over me countless times. Shit, some have thrown me straight under the bus to gain cool points or score with women. Not to sound petty but spade’s a spade chale.
I have stopped. I am almost 25 years old. I think it is time I maybe stop punishing myself for who I am not, and start appreciating myself for who I actually am. Not in some bullshit self-love sense though – I have never been “insecure” about myself (contrary to popular belief apparently) – I just think it is time I maybe stop thinking I am broken and need fixing because I don’t. Everything I feel and am now is everything my experiences dictate I should be. Every time I have tried to be anything else it has ended terribly for me and everyone involved. How the fuck do you expect me to believe you actually care about me, and you’re not just talking B.S. based on some temporary connection you’ve exaggerated in your own mind after all the shit I have seen? In 2019 I had a whole argument with someone about why I couldn’t trust their feelings for me enough to be bothered to do more. January 2020 same, but less.
I don’t think there should be anymore fixing to be honest. I am not doing good, but I would rather this than anyone’s help.