I've come to a realization that I am miserable because I don't know what I am anymore.
Wait, I shouldn't say anymore, because it implies that I once knew. I never knew. I feel like the real me is alone and crying inside, but no one will ever know. No one notices. But its my fault--I play myself up as the "funny fat friend" so that I won't have to explain who I really am--since I don't know. I'm fat because I am afraid of relationships. And I'll never lose weight because I feel that once I became physically attractive, I'd no longer have an excuse for being alone.
They say that everyone feels this way, at least at some point or another, but how can a pain so unique to myself be shared?
Please don't talk to me about this post, this is the bipolar me talking, and I doubt that I will feel this way in the morning.
Which is another thing that pisses me off--I can't stay angry, I can't stay loathing--and it makes me a pushover. My desire for love and respect is so great that I will lie, misrepresent, and apologize in an attempt to appease others. It's disgusting. I get angry with people all the time and I usually restrain myself and try and let it go--try to be Christ-like--but you know what? Screw that. SCREW THAT. I want to be a narrow-minded, passionate, unforgiving individual so that I can really live my life and stop thinking about ANYONE but myself. I want to be a TRUE American.
If I died today, I know people would miss me and cry at my funeral, but what exactly would they miss? The way I try my hardest to please everyone and make people laugh? Everyone has secrets, and so do I. They couldn't remember what went on inside, underneath--because I never tell. I never tell because no one understands, and even if they did understand it, they couldn't help me. I'm between to worlds, hell maybe even three, and they are tearing me apart. I can't stay in the middle much longer or I'll be ripped to shreds.
As I've stated, I will not talk about this because it won't make anymore sense in person than it does written down.