Spook97
Member
- Jun 5, 2023
- 8
People have always referred to me as a magnet of sorts; I bring people that would otherwise never speak to one another together with my extraversion, and am generally regarded as quite the charming person in an otherwise introverted country. I know, folks; it sounds too good to be true! That is because it is.
I have no one. No one talks to me lest they have ulterior motives, or feel obligated to do so. The only friend I had has stopped inviting me to parties as a whole; prior to this he had just stopped hanging out with me one-on-one. I cannot recall the last time someone sought me out on their own.
This brand of loneliness should be familiar by now; the kind that comes with making it on your own. The kind that comes with realising everyone in your life is an acquaintance at best. It still hurts. All I have ever wanted in life is connection, and I cannot even obtain that despite the role I have. Everyone in my life is aware of this fear I have due to my BPD, yet they seem to take advantage of it if anything. I am shrieking with hoarse lungs into an apathetic world that perceives my plight as nothing but a theatre play.
I know no one wants me around. I know that the only reason people even keep me in their lives is so that I can be the host of their cheap parties they know I will pay for. We went out swimming last party, and my best friend did not even look my way as I was actively drowning—calling his name. He swam away laughing with another person after I got up, and began to hyperventilate. Despite this, I am so desperate to not be alone that I asked him if he wanted to do coke this week; through this action, I was immediately invited to a party I was previously unaware of that is in two days. It ended up backfiring because I only had enough coke for two people. I have such a lack of self respect that I allow people to treat me like rubbish in exhange for people in my proximity.
It feels like I am stuck behind the glass of a television screen, frantically banging my fist against the compartment while the audience watches on. No one cares to hear me scream—no one cares enough to save me. Perhaps they find enjoyment in my suffering. Perhaps they assume it to be part of the script.
I am going to kill myself. The plan is to do it next month, yet it hurts more than I could ever possibly articulate to know I have no one in my corner that would shed a tear in my name despite everything I have done for people. I know it is selfish, but all I ever wanted was to be wanted. I guess all of it was in vain.
I have no one. No one talks to me lest they have ulterior motives, or feel obligated to do so. The only friend I had has stopped inviting me to parties as a whole; prior to this he had just stopped hanging out with me one-on-one. I cannot recall the last time someone sought me out on their own.
This brand of loneliness should be familiar by now; the kind that comes with making it on your own. The kind that comes with realising everyone in your life is an acquaintance at best. It still hurts. All I have ever wanted in life is connection, and I cannot even obtain that despite the role I have. Everyone in my life is aware of this fear I have due to my BPD, yet they seem to take advantage of it if anything. I am shrieking with hoarse lungs into an apathetic world that perceives my plight as nothing but a theatre play.
I know no one wants me around. I know that the only reason people even keep me in their lives is so that I can be the host of their cheap parties they know I will pay for. We went out swimming last party, and my best friend did not even look my way as I was actively drowning—calling his name. He swam away laughing with another person after I got up, and began to hyperventilate. Despite this, I am so desperate to not be alone that I asked him if he wanted to do coke this week; through this action, I was immediately invited to a party I was previously unaware of that is in two days. It ended up backfiring because I only had enough coke for two people. I have such a lack of self respect that I allow people to treat me like rubbish in exhange for people in my proximity.
It feels like I am stuck behind the glass of a television screen, frantically banging my fist against the compartment while the audience watches on. No one cares to hear me scream—no one cares enough to save me. Perhaps they find enjoyment in my suffering. Perhaps they assume it to be part of the script.
I am going to kill myself. The plan is to do it next month, yet it hurts more than I could ever possibly articulate to know I have no one in my corner that would shed a tear in my name despite everything I have done for people. I know it is selfish, but all I ever wanted was to be wanted. I guess all of it was in vain.