This is not just the drama queen in me speaking. For once.
I’m a textbook case. Of what I have no idea, I just know that I am one. Sometimes when you walk there is a sudden pain in your foot—searing and quick, like the kind you might get from stepping on a pin or a pointy rock—but there isn’t any external or known internal wound to cause it. It’s just a phantom pain with no origin or story, there is just the consequence of going through eye-watering agony as you flex your foot this way and that, trying to work it out. I am a consequence of something. Of something terrible that left me devastated, ‘cept I don’t know what it is.
I mostly just pushed it aside for the past few months, thinking I was just going mental; slowly descending into the abyss of confusion and consequences—the biggest and most painful of all being me and all that I am. I have the trust issues of an abandoned kid, the cynicism of a divorcee, the random thoughts of a bitter, albeit silly, philosopher and the world views of a man whose world was ideal, yet I’m none of those. I’m a normal 16 yr old with a normal family and a normal life. I’m not a bitter person; I don’t expect the worse—really, I don’t. I don’t expect it. I’m optimistic about the things one ought to be optimistic of. I’m scared of things one oughtn’t to be afraid of.
So, I don’t make sense. I don’t understand myself sometimes. I don’t know how to say it, and I never know if I’m making any sense, I just don’t understand myself. I find myself thinking these thoughts that never crossed my mind about things I don’t even know of, and I have no idea who I am, or why I am. I’m a character who has all the personality traits, but no backstory to explain their existence.
People have reasons for being messed up—broken families, broken hearts and broken lives—I have everything bright and shiny. I don’t understand myself. I don’t know why I have trust issues—I like everyone, yes. And I never think about them distrustfully, I just never let them get too close. I’m this person they think I am, except I know that’s not the real me because if it was, then I would be simple and understandable and trusting. I’m not saying I put on a facade, no no, I don’t pretend or act like someone else. The person they know is me. But not, at the same time. I like them and I believe in the goodness of people and all that jazz. I just never get truly close. I feel gratified when something goes wrong, and pray that it doesn’t at the same time. I don’t make sense.
I’m a result of something. Something meaningful and rational–it’s what I hope for anyway. Because I don’t know me. And it’s not just the usual not knowing who you are as a teenager thing, it’s something else. Something is wrong and I don’t know how to fix it because I don’t know if it counts; I don’t know if any of it is real—really, if all this is just in my head, then that means nothing is wrong, right? But something is. I know it is. I think it is.
I’m a textbook case. Of depression? Anxiety? Teen-o-ritis? No, not any of those. I don’t know what it is. I don’t make sense to myself, I live the life of someone else, think the thoughts of someone else, wish to be something else. I have no story. Nothing to lend me…personality. No hardships, no good luck, just a messy mediocre. I’m a consequence of something important; something that hasn’t happened yet, and perhaps never will.
I think too much.