Outsider

It’s weird how, of the many things that have hurt me and that I’m sensitive about, there are some that I tend to avoid talking about and others that I can’t stop talking about. I talk a lot about love, even though that’s what has hurt me the most – I think because I still view falling in love and trying so hard as somewhat brave. However, I’ve also been mistreated socially quite a bit – you could say bullied at some points – but I don’t talk about it frequently because there is a part of me that still views it as a sign of weakness on my part, even though I know how silly that is.

This weekend, some of my friends and ex-friends are off at a little vacation spot not far from here that’s owned by one of their families. They’ve gone to this place at least once most years for about the past 7 years or so – and yet, I’ve never been invited. It used to be a big deal, a massive party with the whole gang – now it’s a smaller deal, but it’s still something that I hear people talk about pretty frequently, that I’m completely excluded from. They went there for a grad trip after high school graduation, too, and I went nowhere because they had been my friends, and I was not invited. I hear stories of the drama that occurred there from those that still talk to me, expecting me to sympathize with them, and I have a hard time doing so because all I can think is, “I wish I was there.” I’d take all the petty drama in the world in exchange for a chance to feel included.

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Ghosts of Suburbs Past

Every time I go home to my parents’ house, it’s a battle to retain the progress I have made with my mental health.

The last time I lived here, I was blissfully (by my current standards) in love with someone who I now haven’t seen in more than 6 months, who I miss more than anything. And I had friends who I loved and who I hoped loved me. So every time I go home, I’m reminded of all of that, everything we did and everything we didn’t do.

Being here feels like I’m struggling with three different versions of myself – the happy one, the devastated one, and my current self. I’m okay. I’m not as happy as I was, but I’m okay.

I try to limit the number of times I come home – lately it’s been about once a month – because of that, and because I feel like I don’t belong here. I feel like everyone who is now gone from my life took this place away from me.