While growing up, I always had the distinct impression that I’m supposed to be someone else. I’ve never felt quite comfortable in my own skin. Thus, I am (was?) an expert of escapism, through books or video games, or when I feel particularly low, through my own imagination as I huddle in bed before sleep.
I turn 24 in November. One would think 24 years is ample time to grow accustomed to one’s own skin, but the older I get, the more confused I become. I certainly spend too much time wishing I was someone else. I know I’m not alone in this feeling, but oftentimes I become so consumed by this notion that my real life just becomes mechanical.
<— Stole this postcard from this weekend’s Post Secret.
The sentiment isn’t quite the same but eh, I liked it.
This relentless discontent fuels an anger that now seems to flare up at any disappointment, small or large.
Like right now. I can’t seem to prevent my brow from furrowing in exasperation.
I can’t explain why I’ve always wanted to be someone else. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my life. I have a multitude of people who love me for who they think I am. I’m no imbecile. I don’t waste my time doing absolutely nothing. I’m not a horrible person. My future is bright.
I have no reason to complain. I don’t believe I should have a right to complain. It’s a frustrating feeling, this uncalled for discontent. Perhaps I need to return to therapy? I’m not sure how else to address it.
