nobody gets me (seriously)

can I speak without being called hysterical?

I often sit alone trying to make bridges between my mind and the world. It’s quite a struggle considering the world has no idea who it is. It’s worsened because I do. I know who you are, I know who I am. I’m 19. I’m a girl. There’s nothing I don’t know. The only torture I endure is being told that I don’t.

What weakens me most is being told I don’t feel anything real. That my pain, though it rips open my stomach lining, is frivolous. Every emotional declaration of mine is overridden by some larger, allegedly smarter, force, claiming it knows what’s really wrong with me. Leaving me, mouth agape, second guessing if I ever really knew myself.

I am a product of melodrama and where I come from, I am destined to. No sentence I string together can invoke anything other than pure pity. I am screaming and crying to a world that doesn’t believe my words. I am tossed aside and that is where you find me now. Barren, dirt on my knees and yes, very angry. (The smartest among us tend to be.) 

I see it, trust me. The drama, the theatrics, all coating my words. Of course you’re misunderstood, of course no one gets you, of course you’re all alone. Of course. Of course. Of course. I will nod along and tell you that you’re valid because I fear the way you will erupt if I don’t. You are so tortured. In your suburbs and navy denim. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry the world doesn’t get you. I’m sorry you’re misunderstood. I’m sorry you’re a girl. I’m sorry you can’t see your own insanity.

I watch girls on TikTok getting their tattoos removed. They're citing wanting to look feminine and “good in sundresses” as their reasoning for doing so. From the very beginning the female body was poisoned. Eve ate the apple and now every woman that came from her was destined to try and crawl out of their skin. We’re at the whim of the next man, trend, preference. If you don’t see it now I can’t help you. 

I write everyday for an audience of few. It’s my elementary school teacher, an old coworker, the profile picture of someone that left a nice comment once. They sit in my head in a semi circle. I hold my words up to them and await a nod of approval. I never get it. They tell me it’s because I’m being disingenuous.

I want to write that I am tired and I’m angry and I’m misunderstood but can I do that without the hysteria diagnosis? Can I speak the truth without being silly and confused? 

I grip these feelings in my hand, my knuckles turn white, which is hard to do with dark skin so you know I’m really gripping. I am so small yet filled to the brim with the oh so primitive human desire to be understood. I am spitting up blood but being given a clean bill of health. I fear I am becoming repetitive. We get it, you’re a girl, and that’s hard. 

Most mornings I find it within myself to exhale. Your world is only as big as your mind so maybe if I hum songs of acceptance and self-love I’ll start feeling better. It works most of the time. This world, despite its attempts, hasn’t smothered me out. 

I can shout out my words despite the noise and maybe after that feel empty. Empty of all the feelings keeping me curled up on the floor. Then maybe I’ll finally be light enough to float away. Past the earth. Past the limitations of being a woman, of being human even. Existing in the ether as some sort of nebulous amoeba. Maybe then, when I am small enough to be put under a microscope, will you get me.