You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to hate yourself even when everyone tells you nice things that you don’t ever quite believe. Actually, that’s a lie. You don’t believe it. At all. You just kind of pretend that you do in order to create that sense of fake bravado that everyone knew you for, at one point. It’s easier that way. You don’t have to fight it. You don’t have to deal with everyone around you telling you things that are so completely fucking untrue it makes you wanna vomit and hurt yourself. You don’t have to look at their eyes, big and full if disgusting pity. You don’t need it. You don’t need them to look down on you, nor do you want it.
You don’t need anything from anyone.
You like your solitude. Very much, at that.
Oh, and the things they used to say before you shut them all out of your life. Mallory this, Mallory that. The forced praise. The thin veneer of politeness and disingenuous concern for your well-being. All some hilarious farce on the world’s greatest stage: your goddamn life. The lies they spew— the ones you return in kind, shoving words through your grit teeth as you smile and nod. It’s all so sad. And funny. A fucking riot, actually. Someone once said that life’s either a comedy or a tragedy. You reckon yours is equal parts both.
Sometimes you cry so much you’re not sure if you’re crying anymore. Maybe you’re laughing. At some point, you don’t care which is which. All you know is that the sound of your voice, horse and ugly, brings some kind of sick satisfaction.
Maybe you are crazy, like they said.
That thought amuses you, too.
These days, you’re not around them anymore. The people who once tortured you with their mindless trivial pursuits of success. You were never really interested in them, and even if you were at some point, that notion was quickly stomped out of you the moment your father got hauled back to Cambodia. That was around the time your brother was born, and your ill-equipped single mother could never shut that mouth of hers.
You don’t like your mother. This isn’t something that’s uncommon. You wonder if people like you ever have the desire to connect with estranged parents. If others wish for the close connection and intimacy— the ideal parent-child relationships you see on daytime children’s programming.
But you aren’t one of them. You could care less. In fact, the idea of making contact with your mother seems utterly sickening.
You’re not much one for contact in general.
You even shy away from the people who want to get close, get to know you, and whatever magnetic charisma they claim you apparently have. You aren’t sure what they’re talking about or what they’re smoking whenever they say that, and you have practically no interest in them whatsoever, but in a way, the attention amuses you. It’s like a fucking prank: here’s this supposed dark, untamed manic pixie dream girl who you assume represents to them an escape from the monotony of privileged life, but then, surprise! You’re actually a fucking emotional wreck.
Of course, you’d never let them know. You don’t want them to, don’t need them to. In fact, they’re not even worthy.
You despise everyone.
But perhaps, most of all, you despise yourself.
Perhaps— or perhaps certainly —you take a sick pleasure in your own self-loathing. Maybe you like being bad. Maybe you like wallowing in your endless self-pity like some pathetic loser milking your pain for all its worth. Maybe you love the sound of you screaming yourself hoarse when you’re all alone. Maybe you like the way the cuts on your wrists look in the mirror. The blood pouring into the shower drain. Maybe you like the scars, the pain. The way your eyes, dark and sunken, seem to remind you of a corpse— and you, the walking dead fooling everyone that you’re the same as them. Maybe it’s all just some grand fucking joke that god is playing on you and you’re stumbling right into the palm of his hand— like some puppet stringed up with a smile plastered on your face. Maybe that’s all you are. A hollow doll of a person. Sometimes it feels like the only reason you can move your limbs at all is by some unknown cosmic force willing you to live a life you don’t want to live.
Maybe you’re your own perfect tragedy. You feel like no one really understands.
Usually, that’s okay with you. Other times, it’s not.
In the end, it doesn’t matter how much you mull it over.
You’re still here.