Commiseration

Let me preface this by saying that I love fiction. As cheesy as it sounds, being bullied at a young age forced me to dwell in my own mind more often than those who weren't—this particular form of escapism helped me to become creative in imagining things, situations, and even certain people.

Perhaps, this is why I am a romantic. And perhaps this is why I get my heart broken so easily whenever things didn't go in the ways that I thought they could. It never ceases to amaze me that people and situation could go off-script. And so, for the longest time, I have always thought things to work out in their own certain ways. This past month taught me, quite literally, the opposite. Things, humans, and feelings are fickle. They are not quite set on their ways, though we can predict their behaviours through existing patterns—but the outcome of it all would depend on themselves.

Another thing that I learned the past month, yes a mere month, was the fact that it's easy for people to find some level of comfort with me. There is an easiness that somehow I could provide for them; a source for solace for some and a source for commiseration for others. Though, unfortunately, the opposite can't be said the same. 

I think, the one thing that I could gather from all these experiences is that I will always be a creature comfort of sort. A human placeholder for something that people could've had but never could get. I think all I ever was to people is a little reminder. A plethora of almost somethings. Their almost girlfriend, almost wife, almost mother to their ridiculously smart children, almost soulmate, almost best friend, almost love, almost life partner, almost enough. A list of things that could only take pleasure in being second. Someone that could have been a little bit more or a little bit less. Perhaps, if I was a little bit more or a little bit less, I would have been more loved and less abandoned.

Maybe, I can only access devotion through fiction.

Maybe, I am not worth taking care of and cared for.

Maybe, if I was a little less something or a little more something, it would have been easier for people to take care of me. It would have been easier for people to love me. It would have been easier for people to be with me, wanting me for whatever that I offer instead of trying to mould me into someone they know, someone they love, someone they care for.