A Wednesday.
A day ago, I woke up again, smacked with the quick realisation that life is still a thing I am living. So I get up, even though I do not want to. We have a lecture extra, that day. One, two, three. When I was young, in secondary school, classes lasted from eight to three with more than a few subjects a day but here I am, already stressed out over what I was once used to.
Everything changes. Nothing stays the same.
I get ready. I ignore the slight feeling of discomfort my roommate gives me as I always do. When it comes to people, it's always a question of when will they hurt me- will they hurt me- how- when- where- what can I do to avoid it- I learnt some time ago that no matter how small and insignificant you try to make yourself, sometimes it just isn't enough. Someone may still be gunning for you.
That's when you realise that it doesn't matter what you do. Because you still exist. The only time you can know for certain there will be no sense of discomfort or unsafety is when there can be no sense of comfort or safety, either. What I mean is death, whatever that entails, may be the only escape from the good and bad and possibility that comes with being a human being that exists around other human beings.
I like the sky, birds and music too much to call Death to take me like I once did.
The day goes as you would expect. The first lecturer comes in late and talks, then leaves an hour before time. The second does the same, picking out some special people for special presentations and I am relieved by the ease with which I am disregarded. That I am so very inconspicuous to most eyes most of the time.
By the last lecture, I am not doing well. I am teetering. Something I was once so used to... I strangely remember, for the first time in years, that I used to sleep often in secondary school. As good a student as I was academically, classes were mostly boring. The literature teacher had a spark to her, though. Now that I've left Law to study English Lit in university, I see that it may have been the better choice for me but it has grown cold. The passion has left. I just want to get through and enter yet another phase of this weird existence.
The last teacher of the day is a woman I'd had a problem with the semester before. She'd kicked me out of her class for wearing the wrong clothing, I missed a group work because frankly, no one told me there was one because I suppose they didn't care and now my grade is anyone's guess. We're both at fault. Her for establishing ideals for a couple of classes, only to throw them away this semester once again. Me for being so pissed off I left altogether rather than standing outside to listen.
I wore a dress for her this Wednesday. I told myself I wouldn't make myself but I did. I wore a dress for her a day ago and it felt very not like me and it was a bit tight and I spent the day wondering if anyone could see how uncomfortable and strange I felt in it. I always tell myself dresses are for the oppressive church drag my parents like and nowhere else. I wore them for her that day but I didn't have to because people wore t-shirts and she didn't send them away, anymore.
It had stopped mattering to her.
Another thing to remember is that people don't give a shit about you unless they really do. If this person is not family (and I mean genuine family, not a relative by blood that you do not genuinely know) or a friend or you get the idea? Most do not care. You will walk by millions in your entire lifetime and you can wear and say and do whatever. Most that'll happen is they'll glance at you a moment, either amused, amazed, indifferent or weirded out, then forget you ever existed.
This is what happened that day. I was exhausted. So I put my head on the table, trying to hide behind those in front the way my secondary school self often did. What a fond memory, oftem interrupted by annoyed teachers. If I was a teacher, I'd stop caring eventually. Let the little things sleep once I realised it didn't matter all that much, anyway. So many things mean so little to me, now.
I'm getting off track. The lecturer called upon me. Asked my name which I gave, despite my discomfort. And then she did something rather strange. She asked me who my friend was in the class. I mentioned the name of an acquaintance when she wouldn't take my uncomfortable "umm..." for an answer. She was surprised. Said with her own mouth that she was certain I didn't have any. I didn't have the strength to agree with her hypothesis, nor did I have the strength to ask why it was her business in the first place.
After the class, I left as quickly as possible. I'd spent a lot of it numbing myself. Keeping myself upright. Most importantly, my low blood sugar (at least this is my theory) was kicking in. I left to find something to eat so I didn't get dizzy and fall to the floor and I wondered what they thought of me. Those strangers with their eyes and their lips that seem like mine but aren't. All those eyes...
It wasn't a regular day. I usually have one or two lectures instead of three - living the dream, right? I didn't feed myself well enough when I left my hostel and I couldn't find snacks to fill the in-between. I've had that low blood sugar dizziness happen in public and every time, it leads to a panic attack when people inevitably notice the person who cannot walk properly and has dived to the floor. It's embarrassing. I forget how well I need to be fed till it happens to remind me.
That woman confuses me. Most people do. Why does it bother people when anyone does anything? Everyone is always too fat or too slim, too loud or too quiet, too stupid or too smart.
You think you're better than us?
You think you're nothing?
Both.
Neither.
I don't know.
I am the way I am now, despite the fact that my depression properly began due to being as friendless as I am today, because I need a break from people. They have put me through a lot and I'm tired of forcing myself to be the friendliest, smiliest Oompa Loompa. Who do I need to get approval from? The woman? Classmates? They don't know me. I don't know them.
As far as I'm concerned, they are faceless, heartless, mindless beings as Bukowski once wrote. They are cardboard cutouts. Ants like me. I do not know them so they hardly exist. I only know myself and even I don't feel real sometimes. Interactions like the one with the lecturer feel daunting and confusing. I have kept myself away from you enoygh. Why would you enter my space and pull me into your attention orbit just to tear me down? Do you think it kind? Cool? Am I a joke to you?
It hurt for a moment. But the pain stopped. I don't like to numb myself but this wasn't the time to cry. I'd already cried in her class once before, as secretly as possible. I'm a sensitive person. I feel things. Which is lovely when it comes to good emotions. Difficult for bad ones.
The day came and ended. I spent the rest of it watching a series I like... Listening to beautiful music... I enjoyed myself. That day and this week will some day soon fade from my memory. My forgetfulness is a defence mechanism that does much for me - prized above many, despite its bad parts. It will all fade away as it always does. Just as this post will fade away in my dozens of others. Just like I fade away in the dozens of people. Everything fades, so will she, so will I. I only want to live a life that works for me. As much as I dread seeing her again next week, I equally feel nothing at the thought.
Let us forget each other. Let nothing but what matters to you matter. Let everything else simply not exist. Caring is a tiring sport. Anxiety, too. Trying to be enough nearly destroyed me. Here's to trying something new.