i used to never feel anything but anxiety. i feigned happiness, sadness, and everything in between. i practiced smiles in front of the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, staring intently at myself as though absorbed in an on-the-edge-of-your-seat movie. i placed my fingers on my forehead, on my cheeks, on my nose, ears, eyelids, mouth - trying to shape them this way and that into something somewhat acceptable. nothing ever satisfied me, and the fake smiles with soft eyebrows and round face never lasted too long. what was wrong with me? why wasn't i like the other (some rightfully, some not) stuck up private school drug fiends and drama queens and alcoholics and academics and athletes, et al?
my parents, fast like foxes, caught on to my persistent state of desperation at the tender age of 18. you think im exaggerating. fine, judge me, but fuck you. what do you call a girl who breaks down daily, has ridiculously high expectations of herself, only feels validated with someone's, anyone's fingertips locked in hers, thinks her class average to be some sort of actually-mattering numerical score at the game of life, can't stand herself, doesn't actually know herself, falls hopelessly in love at age 15 and never fully recovers from it despite the guy not being worth it, contemplates razors, craves attention, pushes everyone away, cries herself to sleep nightly, invents illnesses, and can't eat in front of other people?
desperate. that's the only word. in so many ways. desperate for any sort of real emotion, save for the self-destroying nervousness that gnaws away from the inside out and manifests itself in raccoon-like eyes, chewed downtothere fingernails, and disgusting protein-less hair.
somehow i meant to get around to talking about how if i only could feel one feeling, i'd want it to be connected. even if it's just one other person. at least i wouldn't feel so alone after everyone else leaves (which they always do).