Sunday, November 15, 2009

One Week Without Friends

For all it's worth, I would come back (whatever that entails)
Only you're oh so happy, and I, I am a thing of misery.
Rifts long forming I shall no longer ignore:
Go your way, I will go mine (we never quite fit together anyway)
Ends to a nothing beginning, and still
The concept of friendship is foreign to me.

I am doing what I do best.

Acknowledging problems publicly and leaving things far too open to interpretation.

Let's just say I am tired. Gosh, does it kill me to feel so incredibly dense and trapped! I can't blame it on you, no (I would give anything to be able to blame something on someone else and believe it, for once). It started with me, and I am sure I continued it on, but was too blind to see it and quite helpless to stop it, anyhow. Yes. I was a terrible friend. Before I became depressed, I was controlling. After I became depressed- letting a sorrow in that people my age now have still yet to feel, five years after I first was flooded with it- I was a passive, spiteful, dull pessimist, draining you of the energy that young teenagers should have. Yes, I ruined a whole period of your life, just by being so helpless and tragic and pathetic. That, I suppose, could not have been avoided even if all the angels in heaven pulled together to try to lift me up, so I don't blame you for not going out of your way to help revitalize a long-dead moron (I wouldn't have, either).

That's how things started.. And during the latter part of middle school they evolved, if you will. I remained stuck in my incredible alone-ness. You blossomed, boys and girls adored you, and (how does this surprise me? How stupid am I, really?) naturally I fell out of your loop. I wasn't about to chase you when you seemed perfectly happy and content and normal (I am, this once, not using that word as a derogatory term) with a crowd of people who thought I was a freak (or, even worse, didn't know I exist). That would have been the epitome of pathetic.

So I did the only thing I could do, which was call upon you less, look to you less as a best friend.

But somehow you came back, a bit, on and off- more time spent with me when you fought with your new friends (your funner friends, the friends you did normal teenaged activities with, the ones not burdened with the curse of being Kristen) and next to no time spent with me when you made up. So sometimes I had my friend, and other times I didn't. This would have been fine if I wasn't a inhuman turd incapable of making other friends. If I had someone else to fall to- someone who would have cared about me- then we'd be friends, sure. We'd see each other around and I could haunt someone else (and maybe, if God ever found favor in me, I wouldn't be such a burden to them).

But God, Sarah, I am so tired of being who I am, and I am tired of sticking around, being the fool in the background. You fit in with these other people, and I am okay wiht that, I really am. I don't begrudge you it beyond the fact that still, after all these years, I am lonely as can be, still better suited to all these small stupid things that combine to make me one eternally set apart. (It's not just you. It's with everyone. Everytime I dare put myself out- whether it be for something as small as answering a question someone asked to no one in particular but only I know the answer to- I feel like a disgusting, detested giant, so deluded that they thought- for a moment- they could interact with regular humans. It's so much easier to stay quiet and stay away- from everyone.

I don't know. The best solution here is to leave everyone else alone. So here's my explanation. You'll be happier this way. Don't worry, I am not thinking about you (I'm not judging you, in other words). I really am not. So be free. I never meant to be the freak that trailed you for eight years.

(Same to you, Nick: I don't like you anymore. I don't. And I apologize for the time spent wasted on me and the time I wasted on you- being, once again, a freak. Like Frankenstein. Only I can't bear to kill someone so that I, in turn, may be killed).

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