This Thing

There's a lot about me most would probably understand.

I'd like to think that I was alone in this. Mainly because most of the time that's just how it feels. But you would be amazed at just how many people are going through the exact same thing. People hide it well. Can you imagine having this thing that makes you ashamed to be alive and then do some research and find that one in four people have precisely the same feeling? One in four people! How profound. How comforting. How sad. How sad that so many people feel as hopeless and disgusting as you. All that research does to you is make you feel less alone in this. But not entirely because you can't talk to them. You can't tell them, discuss it with them, because...

Because you're hiding too. Because even though these people walk among you, there's no way that you would ever expose yourself. There's no way that you could find comfort in a total stranger, right? No one is going to expose themselves unless someone else does it first. With everyone waiting for someone else to speak up, nothing is said. This thing remains hidden. This self disgust remains inside.

You tell your friends, and the good ones help you through it. The good ones remain strong for you, standing as an anchor by your side. Most of them bolt. No relationship is ever the same. No relationship is without resentment. Unless they had it before they met you. Unless they themselves feel the same way you do. Unless they themselves are one out of the four people.

A minor annoyance once a year. That's all it is. The fear of exposure is worse than the actual thing. How sad is that? That this thing really isn't that bad but that the fear is worse?

No relationship is without resentment. For the rest of my life. I'm nineteen years old. That's another sixty years of resentment.