“Girl Island” - the title of my imaginary memoir
I feel like I’d rather admit to almost anything, even if it weren’t true, before I’d admit to being lonely. I hate the word, I hate the concept.... “Isolation blah blah.”
I try SO, SO, hard to convince myself and market myself as this fabulous, quirky, uninhabitable girl Island. I love attention, but only on my own carefully dictated terms. I only grasp for attention in places I know won’t reach too deep, or won’t hurt me more than I already hurt. I’m an open book, but I’m also a book I often fear no one wants to read., and that even if they WANTED to read, they would reach the end and throw it in the trash.
Logically I know I am loved and I know that this isn’t true. I have perhaps more than my fair share of wonderful friends and family and “friend-family” but there is literally not a SINGLE individual who gets each side of me.
Different people bring out different Caitlins and I get tired of each role I have to play with every person.
So that is how I came to so value time alone, even as a child. I can be as weird, as authentic as possible when I’m alone. I don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing when I’m alone, or hurting someone accidentally, rejection or any of the natural messiness that comes with closeness.
But the trouble with that is I become suffocated by my own overreactions, overthinking, and what have you.
I know I love many people but I still question my motives, especially as new people enter my life.
“Am I getting to know this person as an escape or as amusement? Am I willing to engage with them and love/respect them on THEIR terms, or am I forcing them to be a symbol-clapping-monkey to distract me from the rubbish in my head?”
.... To be continued.
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