Perhaps Someone Like Me Doesn't Deserve Friends
Being a recluse is what suits me.
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.
