I hate myself right now. I am writing an article because I have things I want to say, but I don’t want anyone to read them, but that’s the entire point of writing them down in the first place. I want this to be published. I want it to make money from it. This morning I was thinking about writers in movies, and how they can write for hours, and then days, without interruption. I can’t stop writing in my head when it should be on the paper in front of me. I can’t pick you up and put you in my head, but trust me when I say the thought makes me want to cry. The simplicity is orgasmic, because then you would understand why no one knows who I am, or how to pronounce my name, and why I never correct them when they get it wrong. Maybe together, we can find the time and place of when I stopped talking, because not long after that, I forgot I ever knew how. I don’t know when it happened, maybe blacked out trauma or maybe I never learned, but those things are related, because the bottom line is, as a child no one gave me a reason to believe I was wanted. No one hit me, I was never on death’s door (that I know of) but my parents couldn’t take care of me and they never wanted me in the first place. I wonder if that will offend those involved, if they will want to defend themselves. If you do, I hear you. Maybe you loved me but I did not feel it. Maybe you were going through a lot and you did your best. But you also taught me that life would be easier if I was the only one who knew I was actually alive. I am not telling a pity story but I am telling a story. That is my version of the events, and at 22 years old, I have just seen for the first time, that I never learned how to speak again after that. I have been silent and I have been alone, for so long. I need to be seen. I am not quiet, I have opinions, I am loud, I matter. It took me hours just to start writing this, because in the end all I wanted to say was, see me. I am fighting with the urge to apologise for that. It feels annoying and dramatic. But just so you know, you yourself are capable of anything and I think you’re incredible for living. I know that it means nothing, but I also know that it means everything, because I want to succeed in this life, and I want to be happy and I want to be happy with what I have, while also striving for more, because right now, I am not happy with how things are going. I want to be seen and understood, but I don’t want to have to explain who I am, and there are some days when I hate talking more than I hate the dentist and I haven’t been to the dentist since at least the 11th grade. I am now 22 years old. I am young, but I don’t feel it. I have done things, but nothing that has made me feel truly accomplished. Somedays, I don’t think that I know the difference between feeling and thinking, and my brain never shuts off, even when it does. You see, I know exactly what brought me into this chair, in this moment, trying my best to tell people what I’m thinking, when I really don’t think anyone is going to care. But they should care, because I care about people who have something to say, and I have something to say. I want to create art. I want to create good things, and I want to do that for the rest of my life, but I don’t know how to convince myself it’s worth it. If I’m honest, I do not see why I have to. I should know that I want to be happy and then I should choose to be happy. No one person should be able to say that they have dropped out of school three times. I kept going back because I wanted to be passionate and educated and I wanted to learn. I wanted to be obsessed, but I wanted to know what to do with that obsession. I wanted it to take my life out of my hands. One thing would simply lead to another and I would be happy. I don’t know how to be a writer. I just to want write, and I want people to want to read what I have to say. I am a good writer. I have a writing style that is different and unique, and surely everyone will hate it, or better yet, no one will see it in the first place. I have tried. No one has seen it. I have a book of poetry I wrote and that I’m proud of, and I wanted people to read it. On my phone, I have a view of wealth and success like none other. It feels like it could happen for anyone. It should. But it’s not meant to be me, I have a roof over my head and I am grateful for that. I am here, not rich in a mansion, I am in one of the worst neighbourhoods in St. Catharines, Ontario where I have seen someone shooting up on the sidewalk two door down, where I have been mistaken for a hooker more than once, where there is always someone on something ranting about everything. Successful people often say they never imagined being as successful as they became. They have to be lying, right? Because I’ve done it all. I’ve imagined myself as someone who makes history every day. I don’t want to be sad. I just think that for a long time, I also did not want to exist. I don’t think I ever started, and again I think of more contradictions to this. I don’t know how it happened. I do know how it happened. I clocked out. I stopped looking at people. I have spent way too much time staring at my feet. I do not think my feet are that interesting, but I’m prone to falling because I get distracted by thoughts, so I watch my feet. When you fall people look at you. I am obsessed with the story where the genius goes mad. I have been obsessed with the obsessed for so long because I am obsessed with life and I don’t let myself live it. I’m also not trying to convince you that I’m some kind of genius, I’m just saying that if I died with all of this still inside of me, I’d die without even knowing if that was someone I could have become. I have told myself that I cannot mean something. I told myself those words, the same way I look people in the eye just because I know that will make them feel heard, but I am not looking at their eyes, I am only checking off a box on a list. I check of boxes. I have done the bare minimum to survive, and I have done the bar minimum alone. I think the human mind is incredible and I want to write about them. I want to write about interesting people because people are interesting and I just have been so terrified of them for so long, because other people are important. I care about what other people think of me. I want you to think I am talented and beautiful, not because I am weak, and in need of approval. I may be sick and tired of living this way, but I have lived this way for a long time, I just never felt the stovetop getting hotter until it was too late. I had myself convinced that it did not matter because in my head, it was just me, and that is where I was living, and because that’s how it was, that’s who I was meant to be. My mom once threatened to call the police because she hadn’t heard from me in months. It’s not that I wanted her to feel badly, but I did not think that she had a reason to care. My mom sees me. She’s smart, and far more observant than I am, so I know that she sees me. But I didn’t think I was something worth looking at. The person I was presenting for the world (minus exactly two people) was so different from who I really was, and how could she love someone she had never even met. No one had. I was alive, had just stopped living for a while. I want to live this life that I have in front of me, not because I suddenly understand it’s purpose, but because this is the first time I can see clearly, that it is still there waiting for me. Whatever it is. If I want it. If I’m brave. I’m actually not. But I do exist, and I am glad we could meet. My name is Rei, and it’s a pleasure to meet you. I need you to know that I feel uncomfortable meeting new people, but give me a minute of your time, and maybe, I’ll be me, and you can be you, and we will make the most of this time, because it could be utterly meaningless, but that just makes it even more interesting. Give me time, and I will soon stop biting your ankles, I was just panicking a little. Sorry.
Tell me about yourself. Be honest.