I used to hide away from people. I wasn’t scared of them, nor did I dislike them for any reason, it was just learned behavior. I would slink in the corners trying to entertain myself, because I was always alone, no matter where I was, isolated.
My family is very proud of the fact that they dislike people, I couldn’t tell you why. They avoid people, social gatherings, and talk about how others bother them. Somehow I ended up resisting that thought process growing up, but I avoided people all the same.
We moved to a small town when I was pretty young, a place where you see the same people everyday, and there’s nothing to do. They love it, it’s peaceful, I guess, nobody bothers them. Me, not so much, I wish every night that I could get out.
I’m 17 now, doing well in high school, dual enrolled in a community college, and I’ve got a part time job where I can work with animals. On the other side of that coin, I’m severely depressed, battling suicidal tendencies with therapy and medication, I dread coming home every day, it feels like a prison that I’m never going to escape from, and I yearn to meet new people and experience new things, to get far away from here.
I took a trip to New York City recently, it was amazing. The lights, the buildings that seem to rise endlessly, people walking by each other on the sidewalk of the ever-busy streets. Millions of stories crossing every day, thousands of people to meet, hundreds of things to do. I rode the subway, I visited museums, watched people perform in the street! Each place and activity held hundreds of possibilities, and always some people to meet and talk to.
I thrived there, I loved it. I met so many interesting people. People who have had hardships, people who’ve come from far and wide, or have lived in the city their whole life, they each have something to say, and I wanted nothing more than to hear them all.
I felt like I could live there for lifetimes and still find new experiences, I was happy for the first time in a while, excited, even. I was only there for a week, but it was the best week of my life. I made friends, even if they only lasted a few minutes, I saw things I would never have thought I would, experienced being a part of an actual society.
The thought of going back home killed me, brought back every intrusive thought, every piece of dread I had momentarily escaped. The long drive home was a deep low. I couldn’t sleep the first night back home, it was one of the first times I thought I was actually going to kill myself. I guess I didn’t.
The lack of people, new things, is so much more prominent now that I saw what is out there. I tasted the fruit, and that makes everything so much worse.
I’ve always felt guilty about my depression, it drains my will, my energy, my passion and happiness, but nothing is “wrong”. I live middle class, my stomach is full at the end of the day, I’m not treated badly or going through any difficult crisis. Things just suck, and I can’t complain, because my life is not hard, it’d be unfair for me to hate the life that some people would love to have.
That sounds cocky, or assholeish, I know, I’m sorry. People have real problems, homelessness, poverty, heartbreak or health problems, I’m just a sad idiot.
I don’t even know why I started writing this, or where I wanted it to end up. I started off with saying I think I’m an extrovert, but I think I’m just lonely. I saw what seemed like genuine happiness, and it’s other people, and I had to leave it. Sorry if this was long, and served no purpose, but it has been jumbled and running around in my head for a long time, and I wanted to see it strung out, cohesive, off my chest.