Self-pity and self-involved bla bla

As the youngest in the family and probably also the most quiet, it is somehow normal for me to keep to myself more than the rest of the family. Yes, of course, we’re all hiding something. We’re never honest. We sit at the table at tea and talk about mum’s work, then my father returns to the computer, my mother plays words with friends and my sister goes back into the attic, I mostly take to my room. It’s normal.

One reason why I became a blogger – or generally why I write down a lot about what I think – is because I don’t talk about openly to anyone else. You could say it is part of my personality, but it is also – and this may just be a theory – part of being the youngest.

When my older sister has something that bothers her, it can get very loud. We all listen and my parents talk to her about it or argue or whatever. Generally everybody in my family is very loud. I am the only one who has a naturally quiet voice – even the oldest cat is louder.

Anyway, it seems that I, for whatever reason, have less right to speak freely.

Today I got worked up about something that was written on a form that was not true. As this wasn’t the first time this had happened I got slightly loud, but really I was joking. I don’t really get worked up about things easily. Even if I did, nobody would care, it seems.

When I am with my friends I get worked up – in a not so serious way – about all sorts of things. It’s fun. And they listen, even they don’t really care. It’s what we all do as many of us are younger siblings.
When I say something in my family, I immediately get put down. Especially by my sister. Now, she has angrily advised me not to blog about her ever again, or else, but I’ve decided I’m annoyed and my desktop says:

WARNING: I am a writer. If you annoy me I can make bad things happen to you in my novel.

The same thing goes for my blog. So there. This is the only place I don’t get corrected and put down in any way. So, here’s a little bit of gossip: When she who must not be named finished school about two years ago, she didn’t know what to do. So she stayed at home a lot and slept in, watched TV and things – which was completely understandable. Except that it took her a while to actually apply anywhere. After a while my mother cut her allowance and forced her to get a job, then she applied for uni and slowly progress came into the picture. Now she is at university, has a job and is very busy.

Now, when she was doing her final exam (which is what I will be doing in a few weeks), she belittled my school work because hers was harder. At the time I agreed, as the final exams seemed like this big dark monster that would probably eat you and spit you out at the end – all skin and bones. But now she is at university and, of course, that is harder too. She said the final exams were a joke in comparison to what she had to study for at uni. One time she complained that she’d been at uni from eight until five – I said I had been at school for that long too. But then she said: Yes, well, it was harder for me.

My point is, that no matter what I do, it will never be as good as what she has achieved – or what my parents have achieved. That’s normal, of course. My dad studied physics and software engineering and some other complicated stuff, my mum built a career from the age of 17 and me, I’m still going to school. I will always be several steps behind.

I know this sounds like pointless moaning – which it is really – but this is my act of rebellion or whatever.

Seriously I can’t wait to finish my education and be great at something that none of them have ever done.

Whenever I complain I am set back, because somebody else has something else to complain about. Maybe I should have been louder as a child.

This is a very chaotic post, I know. You can stop reading now if you want.

But I’ve been thinking. All this time I’ve said that I may seem crazy, but I am actually one of the more stable ones of my group of friends. They are not all unstable, but I’ve always been the calm (mostly), positive, realistic pole in the garden. Well, I’ve tried to be. I was always a little crazy towards the outside, thought I was an open book.

But maybe I am a bit crazy.

This is a very self-pitying post, I know. But as I said: This is where can be loudest.

I’ve told you about the time I was bullied a few years back. I always said it left my self-esteem scratched, but I have it back now.

But maybe it left more than a few scratches.

There was a time when I’d eat a whole box of chocolates every friday, because I was sad. Mostly I felt sick afterwards, but I repeated it anyway. Sometimes I saw the train coming in the evening and I wondered how easy it would be to just step onto the rails.

My parents’ marriage has never been great – not that I can remember anyway. It was either hot – as in heated arguments and menace of divorce or cold silence. That’s their problem, not mine. But I guess they’ve never been an ideal example for a good marriage – but who is? My sister’s relationship with my father has also never been the best.

If I had to describe the situation at home I’d say it’s a bit cool. Sometimes we have good times, happy, warm moments that make me realize just how much I miss the warmth a family can theoretically provide.

Around the time I was bullied, my parents were both working and we had a housekeeper who cooked us lunch. We would eat, she would tell us how lucky we were to have cutlery and we’d take to our bedrooms or watch TV or do homework. Luckily I had a good base of friends who lived right next door. All I needed to do was go on the swing and mostly somebody would join me.

I never told anyone about the bullying. I didn’t tell my friends at home or my family. I ate chocolate. I never considered myself in any way broken. At the time I just felt lonely sometimes. I had friends though and I knew my family really did care, therefore jumping in front of a train never was a real option.

I always said I’d come out stronger than before. But maybe I didn’t.

What if my last relationship failed because the thought of giving somebody my trust scared me. In school, they would ask me personal questions and then laugh, whatever the answer. They made my victory at a karaoke competition into a joke, because it had been held at a church for a good cause. They asked me about my type of music – Alicia Keys “As I am” at the time, songs of empowerment – and giggled because music about drugs and sex was the only cool thing back then. They took my individuality apart so I decided to become as individual as I could be. I spent three years fishing for my confidence and caught different versions of it on the way. Recently I wrote a post: “I am pretty”, saying that I was not perfect, but I liked the way I was. I do. But I don’t think I’m strong enough to really make myself heard.
It still feels awkward to be the centre of attention. It’s exhausting to always speak loudly when it comes so naturally to others.

When I was bullied I swore to myself that I would have reached something by the time of our class reunion. So basically that’s what I’m waiting for. To have reached something. It doesn’t matter what I do, buying homeless people sandwiches, writing novels. It seems I can’t really feel I’ve done anything until somebody who put me down tells me so. Maybe that’s why I want to be published by a proper publishing house (not self-publish, which would be another option) with contract and all. I want somebody else to say: Yes, we believe in you. And then I can take that printed book and through it at people’s heads. The heads of all those people who ever doubted me. But truthfully it probably wouldn’t change anything.

By the time of reunion they will have forgotten all the things they said and did to me and  of course none of them will go: “Ah man, I’m sorry I was such a bloody idiot. I guess you are better than me, not the other way around.”

I know that. I could win a nobel prize and it still wouldn’t matter. Because it’s all in my head. the title of my blog is not quite accurate. It should be called “Not quite good enough”. I’m never quite good enough for anything. Everybody is better than me.
And I am always the one who says not to compare oneself with others, but it’s what I am doing constantly. I see people who are better writers than me, better singers than me, better students than me and have a better attitude than me. I always say I should be happy with myself, but I suppose I’m just not.

Everything I do is an effort to impress other people. What have I ever done that was just for me? This? Writing this post to get it off my chest? Or did I write it so somebody could tell me that it’s fine to be crazy. I try not to be one of those people who manage to make everything about themselves. Some people even make a tragedy about themselves. It’s quite funny when the teacher asks: “So, where were you when 9/11 happened?” and everybody claims to have sat in front of the television, having seen smoking buildings, not being quite able to understand, but knowing that something really bad had happened. People had been crying, hysterically calling their relatives. Where were you when this happened? Unless you were right in the middle of it, does it really matter?

I’m contradicting myself here. When 9/11 happened I was six. I was a naive little six-year-old who had no idea what was going on and didn’t really care either. But apparently that answer is not appropriate as I seem to lack compassion.

I’m never enough, never will be, as I keep comparing myself. I will never be compassionate enough because I don’t cry when there’s been another school shooting (it’s called banning guns, stupid! It’s not that hard), never studious enough because I haven’t written down all the topics for my exams yet, not cool enough because I don’t know the latest catch phrases, songs and android games – apparently it’s flappy birds…what bird isn’t flappy, unless you’re a chicken? I’ve talked about this a lot. That I shouldn’t base my self-esteem on the opinion of some random people who aren’t my friends anyway, that I should do things for me, that I should stop comparing myself to others.
Well, hello, I’m a hypocrite. And I hate myself for it.

Ever since my little panic attack in the club I’ve grown less secure and I’ve started to think that maybe it’s all been an act that even I could not see through. Maybe I’m just this stupid little insecure girl that doesn’t show emotions unless they’re good ones or seem somehow strong.

I want to be strong. I want to be happy. I want to be a good person. I want to have my own opinions. I want to change the world. Bla.

But probably the only thing between who I am and who I want to be is this thing called stupid crazy weird inferiority complex regarding just about anything.

So should I post this? I could ruin my image as the wise, stable what’s-it that I thought I was and I thought everybody else thought I was too. But then again, this could be a phase. Or I could be crazy. However, only a few people read my blog – so thanks for that and well done for reading this whole thing. And sorry for dimming the mood.


2 thoughts on “Self-pity and self-involved bla bla

  1. all the time i used to read smaller articles that
    as well clear their motive, and that is also
    happening with this piece of writing which I am reading here.

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