I won’t even try to sugarcoat everything.
Growing up with a lot of siblings can be fun but it can be the most depressing thing as well.
I have neve really delved in further in this topic as I find it rather pointless but since I have already begun typing, I might as well just finish everything.
What does it feel like when you’re the least favourite kid?
Well for starters, it’s murder.
You grow up seeking the approval of those nearest to you. You’re the kind of person who would try his/her best to please everyone. It’s just that you can’t. You simply can’t. Most especially when they don’t like you.
If I had known that things worked this way then I could have salvaged years of heartache and rejection. If I had known that I could never please these people then I would have just done what I feel is correct for me. If I had know that I could never be the favourite, then I should have just loved other people relentlessly.
But things aren’t as easy as that, specially if you’re just 12 and you wrote your first poem and your mother laughed and said she doesn’t believe that you did.
But you did.
I fucking did.
And even now that I know that I cannot garner the love and affection that I crave for from these people, I still get slivers of hope that maybe one day they’d see how often I write about wanting their love.
What’s worst is that these wishful thoughts partnered with the cold reality hunt you for as long as you live. You never stop until you get to where you want to be. You will always thrive in order to get a bit, even just a bit, of encouragement from those who are around you. You’re nearer to success than most people think. That’s the silver lining. While the rest, well, let’s just say that you’ll always feel as if you’ll never be enough for anything– for anyone… even yourself.
Last night, I wept– in secret like always. I wept because I was upset. Upset because some false wisdom hidden behind my scarred little mind tells me: that it is obviously perfectly alright to be left behind. It’s alright to be forgotten. It’s alright to be treated like some piece of shit. While I know that these are self-mutilating thoughts, I could not shrug the fact that these are the only thoughts I know. These are the only thoughts I am familiar with.
And it’s sad.
It’s sad because love’s definition has always been like this for me.
And I could only lie about it whenever I am asked.
Love means the death of myself.
For that’s the love that was given to me. And I am not even sure if that’s love at all.
Nonetheless, that’s the primary feeling I know. The feeling of self mutilation in order to put some sense as to why I am unloveable. And up until today, I am convinced that I am unworthy of people’s love.
Love has always been the thing I want the most and yet I know that I am not cut out for it. Isn’t that the saddest irony?
To realize that the love that you were given as a child is not even love at all.
You were but a responsibility.