Chapter one; Love, Life and the Pursuit of Happiness.

    I first heard of the word “melancholy” from a TV show. It was called “A Series of Unfortunate Events,” popular, I know. The word stuck with me not just because of how Lemony Snicket described it, but because it described my life almost perfectly. Not quite depressing, but not exactly happy either.

I remember being alone from an early age. I remember sitting on the sidewalk right where it turned from one street to another, and had divots in the pavement to let blind people know that there was a crosswalk there. It was my favourite place in the neighbourhood to sit, reflect, and often cry, especially when the sun was setting. I once sat there when I was around 10-11, sobbing because my only friends, other than my loving cousin, in the entire neighbourhood were leaving. You see, I had other “friends,” but I knew that they all secretly hated me. I sat sobbing, just as I would years later. That neighbourhood I haven't seen since Christmas, which, at the time of writing this, is the 28th of May, due to my father.

My father, who is a drug addict and alcoholic, was also a narcissist and asshole. He is passive-aggressive (sometimes just aggressive when he’s drunk), and he doesn’t want to change. At least that’s my view on him. He never once tried to change when I was there, and even if he did try to change, now he wouldn’t last very long. I tried drinking in my freshman year of high school. I regretted it over the toilet many times before I decided that ultimately all alcohol would do was fuck me over. I have the addict gene on both sides of my family, after all. I may try cigarettes, though, when I turn 21 and no longer live with my mom, who actually put in the effort and gave up cigs for the greater good of her family (unlike my father). Often times, when I fuck up, my step-dad compares me to my dad. It tears apart my self-esteem every single time, and reminds me that I shouldn’t date ever again because I’ll always pick the wrong person.

Not to say that I haven’t ever dated. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. I would call my exes my “seven evil exes,” as a reference to Scott Pilgrim, but exactly one of them actually wasn’t evil. She was kind, and I’m still friends with her, though I don’t speak with her much now that I’ve moved schools. Often, she, I, and our two other mutual friends meet up a few times a year to hang out. Usually, this includes birthday parties, zoo trips, and the occasional Six Flags hangout. All four of us used to see each other more often, but seeing as how I moved, and one of our other friends will most likely be moving soon, it’s to be expected that we kind of lost touch. 

I don’t really know how I feel about that, either. I hate change (which is why my favourite candy has always been the same–candy corn–and why my favourite movies have been and always will be the kind that make you sob and reassess your life), but I made the decision to move schools, and it’s been overwhelmingly positive, so I suppose that change can be for the better.

Okay, now, why am I writing this? Well, I find comfort in the melancholy of my life – hell, I even like it. I like to be alone, and I find it easier to write down how I feel rather than have to explain it to someone because I know I’ll find myself bawling and crying. Plus, you never know how people will react. I know that my computer will never judge me, and even if I do end up posting this, I know that it won’t matter what strangers on the internet have to say about me (plus I can always delete comments). But most importantly, there has to be someone on this big blue (and green) world who feels the same as I do. They say that art is supposed to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable, right? 

I don’t know if these letters and words will ever actually reach anyone. I could be sending this out into space and utter nothingness. But I know that if I saw this on the internet, I would feel a lot better about myself. (Yes, I know I just said that strangers’ thoughts on the internet don’t matter, I’m contradicting myself.) Anyway, if you’re reading this, hello, I hope you know that in this big, confusing world, everyone else is confused too. You don’t have to have it all figured out, because truly? I don’t think anyone ever really does figure it out. You just have to go along with the ride of life and tell off anyone who tries to fuck up your self-image. Don't the world's lifelong disdain towards love be the reason that you hate others or give up on yourself.


“There’s an art to life’s distractions. To somehow escape the burning weight, the art of scraping through.” - Andrew Hozier.


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