I don’t know what makes me me. I don’t particularly like me either. I am lazy. I am an extreme pessimist. I procrastinate with everything. I sabotage myself on purpose sometimes because I think, “Why bother? I’ll never succeed anyway.” I love writing, but I hate writing about myself; not because my life is particularly embarrassing, but because I don’t even like to think about myself.
People think I am funny and caring and helpful. Most people think I am bubbly and fun and confident. I am not. One of my better skills is faking my feelings. I can make people think that I’m crying because of a bad grade or my eyes are only red from allergies. I can convince you that I am not smiling because I’m tired, when really, I almost to ended everything last night. I can tell you I didn’t do my homework because I was lazy, when in reality I was rushed to the hospital after passing out after a panic attack. I am a liar because lying is just easier for everyone.
Most days I just try to forget who I am. If I can forget that I am chained down to my lump of a body and my prune of a brain, then maybe I will make a friend or tell a joke or walk with confidence.
I don’t like to be alone. I don’t even need to talk to a person to make me feel better I just need them to be in the same room with me. I make my brother sit and eat dinner with me every night, and I dread bedtime because then I will be alone again.
Frivolous things make me happy: shopping, nail polish, television. I also have an unhealthy tendency of eating my feelings.
My favorite thing to do is make other people happy. I know, humble, right? But really, it’s the only thing that makes me feel good about myself. I am a hypocrite. I tell my friends how to deal with their problems. I give them advice and even get angry with them for being so negative, when in actuality, internally, I am so much worse.