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I hate being by myself, to be honest. It’s not because I get bored by myself, and it’s not even necessarily because I get lonely (well, not entirely, anyways). It’s because whenever I’m alone, I almost always end up turning introspective. I have to start looking at myself – what I’ve done, how I’ve felt, what I’ve wanted and hated and wished I could’ve just forgotten entirely.
It’s like all of my anxieties and self-doubts start creeping up on me, and when they do, they won’t go away. I can’t remember anything good I’ve done, no matter how hard I try, and one by one each of my failings rears its terrifying head and reminds me just how worthless I am. How unlovable. How empty. How pathetic and pitiable.
I’ll see lies and denials, letting me know how I’ve tried to protect myself by shutting everyone else out. I’ll see jobs half-finished because I knew I wasn’t good enough, I knew I shouldn’t have even bothered starting. I’ll see the looks of disappointment on everyone’s faces during those times when I just didn’t care.
But maybe even that’s too arrogant of me. One can’t be disappointed without expectations, after all – and is it even right of me to assume that anyone expects anything out of me? I certainly don’t. I just act like an idiot if something goes wrong; or rather, if I do something wrong. Inevitably it’s my fault somewhere down the line.
It’s worst whenever the faces get less cloudy, though. Can my dad still be proud of me, even though I’m a wuss and a cheat? Can my coaches and teachers still care about my performance when I stopped caring and just gave up on myself? Can the girl I love love me for who I am when I hate myself? That’s the worst part of it, and if I don’t get sick then I just break down and lose it.
Sometimes, I want to blame something on someone else. I don’t even want a scapegoat for all my problems – I just want to believe that at least one of them isn’t my fault.