I Have No Friends — And It's All My Fault

Photo: Burdun Iliya / Shutterstock
sad woman
Self

What am I doing here?

I struggle to find a purpose and meaning behind the pain because the pain never seems to stop. People preach this notion of "it gets better," like the concept is something new. I have heard those promises before, don’t you know?

My tolerance and strength are not limitless. I am only human; I bleed, just like you — the most intense pain coming not from another person, rather from myself.

My own self-hatred and sabotage begging for somebody to control my every move. To break me down and build me up.

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I need to feel the chaos to feel alive, but sometimes it is just too much.

Too. Much.

That pretty much sums up how I feel about my feelings. Overwhelmed, how can I explain something I don’t comprehend?

I am learning to understand myself, to talk about the demons in a way that doesn’t make me sound crazy. But that’s what you are all thinking, right? I'm crazy.

How much easier would life be if I just shut my mouth and acted like they wanted me to —perfect daughter, perfect sister, perfect friend.

If I just gave up on my aspirations and the things I want out of life just to make them happy.

How hard is it to be a sheep?

They never tried to understand me. They never wanted to be who I needed yet were always expecting that from me. They wanted a different _______ , and I just wanted to be myself yet still be loved by them. Was that really too much to ask for?

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I suppose I am the black sheep, always have been. I never fit in at home, finding comfort only on the pages of books or hidden away in my diaries.

It was then and there the darkness began, the festering feelings of discontent and self-hatred. I was different, odd. Everybody eventually noticed it in small ways, but me — I felt it. Constantly.

It was so embarrassing. The lack of control; the never-ending desire to be in control of everything.

My childhood was extremely lonely, a majority of it was spent doing what I thought would make me seem normal to those around me.

Going to school was my oasis because I could be whoever I wanted to be — and I was smart, athletic, funny. Maybe I wasn’t actually popular, but I loved being able to escape my house for a world of books and possibilities.

My friendships were never deep though, they never seemed to be to what I needed, either.

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I found that the company I enjoyed the most was my own, and as a child, that made me a “good girl”. Being quiet, observant, and in my own world was considered obedient and respectful.

As I grow older, I think about these things.

But as a child, my mind was not thinking about how terrible my parents were. No, not really.

I was thinking about how much I hated myself for their disapproval.

It has become so painful for me to look back on how badly I hurt myself, how badly they allowed me to inflict pain in every imaginable way to my body without anybody noticing.

How did nobody notice?

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Emily Lingenfelser is a 20-something mom who writes and captures moments to make sense of this messy world. She runs the website, Emily is Fearless.

This article was originally published at Medium. Reprinted with permission from the author.