Believe it or not, I don’t want to be writing this post; honestly, I don’t. I’d much rather be sat here, writing a humourous post about New Year, and all the strange things people do when the clock strikes 12 and one year finally morphs into the next. I want to write happy things, like how I always tell myself that this year will be the year I get a decent night’s sleep on the night of the new year, or how I’m going to do brilliant things this year, and how I’m going to be a better person.
But I can’t. I can’t, because I don’t feel that way. I don’t feel smiley on the inside, and how can I smile on the outside whilst my insides are so numb?
I was at a party on Thursday night. Parties usually stress me out, both before and during the event itself, and often after when I overthink every word I uttered that night, and wondering how many more people hate me now, compared to just 3 or 4 hours before. This party, hosted by one of my best friends, was not too dissimilar – especially the over-analysing afterwards. Admittedly, I got pretty drunk – unapologetically so –, but with intention and purpose.
For the last few months, I’ve felt one thing, almost constantly, without relief or escape. I feel numb, dead inside, like I’ve been sapped of whatever it is that makes you feel, that makes you smile or cry or laugh with any meaning or feeling behind it. It’s like I’m never truly living in the moment, because there’s nothing for me to get a hold on, to wrap myself up in, and so I’m always just there, but not really. I feel detatched, out of reality, like everything that happens to me is happening to someone else – someone I’m merely watching –, and their smiles aren’t mine, and their tears mean nothing to me because I’m not them and they’re not me.
Alcohol, at the very least, made me do something – anyting. Sure, I acted like a twat, and ended up doing a lot of things, and saying a lot of things, which made me hate myself the next morning, but I felt something. I felt involved, and the alcohol made it possible to almost push the numbness down, to subdue it somewhat, just for a little, and replace it with the fuzzy reality of alcohol. Feelings still didn’t connect with me, but at least with being drunk, there’s a reason, and explanation, an excuse. I told my friend that I just wanted to drink enough to cry, and in fairness that wasn’t a lie, but I knew that what I really wanted – to cry, and to feel something, anyting at all – was never going to happen. And so I kept drinking, because once I say I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it, until my head hurt and I couldn’t form coherent sentences and I forgot about the numbness because that’s how it’s meant to feel.
What’s the point in living if I’m not living? I don’t feel, I’m just there, in my little hole of nothingness, feeling nothing. It’s terrifying, because I don’t understand why I feel like this, and it’s so difficult to explain. How do you describe the feeling of feeling nothing at all? How do you describe something that just isn’t there? I know that alcohol isn’t the answer, and I know I can’t let it become so.
My confidence is lacking at the minute, too. I spent the whole of Friday, after the party, writing, deleting and rewriting messages, saying how sorry I was about being an idiot the night before. Little things I’d said – throw-away comments, I suspect – ran circles around my screwed-up brain, telling me what a shitty person I am, how I shouldn’t say anything because it just makes people hate me more. I spoke to someone for too long, when they probably didn’t want to talk to me; I gave someone a hug, who probably didn’t want a hug from me; I laughed at a joke, when I probably wasn’t wanted there at all.
As of late, I’ve had an increasing number of days where a text message conversation is the most difficult it’s ever been, because I read and re-read every text I send, and re-write it time and time again until words lose their meaning and I give up. And all the time, I’m looking – almost obsessionally – for clues in people’s messages, or the way they speak, or the time they take to reply. Clues that they hate me, clues that they’d rather not be talking to me, or that they have better things to do, better people to talk to than me.
At the party, there were a lot of people I had never met before. All of them were lovely, although I’m scared that I did or said things that made them dislike me. One of the boys from the party messaged me the day after, saying that it had been ‘lovely to meet’ the night before. It was a lovely thing for him to do, and we’ve been talking on Messenger over the weekend. I’m trying desperately not to say anyting weird, or to say anything that might make him dislike me. I’m scared to reply to his messages if it’s significantly later/after the time that he sent them, in case I’m disturbing him, or he doesn’t want to speak to me. I just don’t want to lose someone else who, for now, seems to be getting on with this messed-up excuse of a teenager with a broken brain.
Usually, a good cry, a cup of tea and a book is enough to make me feel better – in that moment, not for any prolonged amount of time. Having a temporary solution at least makes things clearer in my mind, which usually helps in the long-run. But what’s the point in crying, to let out the worry and sadness, when the tears feel meaningless, symbolising nothing but the detachment I feel from them, and the isolation I feel from everything. Losing yourself in a book is all about absorbing yourself in a new world, a different place, but I can’t replace the emotions I feel with someone else’s when I can’t even find my own.
I wish I wasn’t writing this post. I wish I could feel something – anyting –, because even gut-wrenching sadness would be better than feeling nothing. It would, at the very least, make me feel like I’m living, rather than just being.