Stories are my savior, writing is the way I process the world

I’m tired of going unnoticed. I’m tired of being unimportant. I’m tired of everyone assuming “Christie’s fine.” She’s got her cat, she’s got her trips she takes across the U.S. and that one time to Canada. She’s good. She doesn’t need me, she doesn’t need people. She doesn’t need friends. She likes being alone, she’s always writing her stories or at the lake listening to music. She’s got her shows, she loves her shows. As if all those things are enough. They are not. Companionship, physical love, emotional connection; that is what is truly needed to thrive. More now than ever.

This must be what people think because the alternative is that they don’t care at all. Or…and this goes with the original assumptions, they both think I’m fine being alone all the time, but at the same time they can’t find out for sure or spend time with me because they have a husband and a baby to care for. And if they do have any free time to spare, they’d give it to their best friend. They don’t have time for anyone else but those 3 people in their lives. And my best friend lives in Sacramento. And I don’t want to live in Sacramento. No offense to Sacramento. And she wouldn’t be there forever anyway. In the time I’ve known her she’s lived like 5 places. It’s the life of being married to a military man. So I couldn’t just keep uprooting my life to be near her and her soon to be now 5 kids. As much as I’d love to be in their life more (they are the only kids I’m ever going to have) I can’t just move and Cali is way more expensive than here. I do wish I could see them more, though. Also I like my house and it’s the only place my cat knows and as dumb as that sounds, I don’t want to disrupt her life either. Not that I wouldn’t in a heartbeat for a girl. If I met a girl who was so into me and I was into her and she moved away then hell yeah I’d move to be near her, sorry Mollie. I wouldn’t get rid of her for a girl, but I would move us if it meant I got to be with a girl who adored me, who loved me and couldn’t bear to live apart.

But none of that is going to happen. I can’t even make a friend, like a normal hang out on the weekend kind of friend. So what makes me think I can find someone that wants to be more than that? And I can’t even try anymore anyway. It feels so pointless. All of it. Everything. Why should I try when I don’t fit in anywhere? I already know this for a fact. I’m not one of those people who try out for American Idol thinking they’re a fantastic singer but they sound like a drowning cat. I’m super self-aware, I’m not delusional. I don’t fit in with girls my own age because they’re all married to guys and have young children. I don’t fit in with single girls my age because I don’t drink and I don’t like going to bars and clubs. I don’t fit in with the lesbians because I’m not really one of them, I’m just a wannabe. It’s like groupies who hang out with the band. I don’t play the instrument, never given a chance to, so what the fuck do I know?

Does anyone even see me? Am I even here? Do I exist? Or am I just a ghost? I’m not a bad person, I’m not an evil person. I don’t hurt people, at least not on purpose. But I feel like I’m not good enough for anyone to like, for anyone to get to know, for anyone to connect with, for anyone to love. That’s the only explanation. I’m not cool enough, I’m not pretty enough, I’m not interesting enough. I’m not funny enough. I’d give up everything, this house, this city, my trips, everything but Mollie and obviously my family (which includes my bestie and godkids) for HER. For the one. For the girl that wants to be with me. That deems me good enough to be with. That deems me pretty enough, cool enough, funny enough, interesting enough, special enough to be with me. What makes people even like each other? I don’t even know. I can’t remember what it feels like to be liked like that, to be loved, to be held, to be kissed. I can’t remember. I’m not saying that to be overdramatic, it’s the truth, I actually can’t remember. It’s been too long and it only happened twice. But it was intense and real and felt like it would last forever. I look back and just know that it was those things, I can’t really remember what it felt like to experience it, not realistically. I only know that I did.

I wrote tonight for 6 hours, practically without stopping and mostly my story- Another Handmaid’s Tale. Thank God for that. Thank God I have the ability to write. That at least I love my stories. At least I want to read them. Sometimes it feels like it’s the only thing keeping me going. Sometimes it’s not enough or I can’t write or I don’t want to read these made up stories of love, I want to experience real love, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than being trapped in a mind with no creative outlet. That would be far worse. Like those poor girls in Handmaid’s Tale. No music or books or writing. That right there even without all the other horrible stuff, is my Hell. Not entirely sure why I like writing this story. I guess I’m just in a place where I need to create a life worse than mine, so I can feel better. Although I always write a happy ending; eventually I will in this story too, when I get there. I always get the girl in the end…wish I could write that ending in my real life…if only.