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Pacing is the best way to describe what I am doing.
Walking implies a purpose, a destination. Wandering implies that I do not know where I am.
Neither of those are the case.
I pace through the hall.
Going back and forth. When I reach the end of the hallway, I simply turn around and start again.
The mask I’m wearing covers the top half of my face; fitting of the masquerade theme.
Along with this goes a full suit. I would call it a tuxedo, but that would imply it is expensive. It is not. Not only is it rather cheap, it is not even mine. I would never spend a single cent on something I find so utterly unbearable to wear.
The suit itself looks fine. It’s what it represents that I despise so much.
I wonder if I look like an apparition, a ghost wandering this mansion.
I wish I were a ghost.
Not because I wish for death, it’s far too early for that, but because it implies a kind of freedom. Being able to float away, tethered by nothing, such a concept appeals to me deeply, someone who wishes she could leave.
No. I am very much trapped here.
Someone calls to me in a name that isn’t my own . It’s my name in the most utilitarian sense: A spoken word meant to refer to the being of myself.
I’m unsure why this unnerves me so. My appearance is to be expected. No one will bat an eye, no one perceives me as out of the ordinary.
Still, the fact that I am seen as myself while wearing this makes my stomach turn.
——
I’m standing in the back of the dance floor now. I’m not exactly sure how I got here. No one took me, I must have walked here somehow.
At the beginning they were playing some mediocre wedding music (think “Dancing in the Dark” or “Thinking Out Loud” maybe some “All of Me”), but now they’ve switched to mid 2010s pop, which is far more my speed. When I was a kid, my mom would play stuff like that during the summer. Obviously those days are long gone.
I look out at the sea of people. It could only really be referred to as a mosh pit. So many people in such a small room. I hate crowds. Being in there would probably give me a panic attack. It’s been a while since I’ve had one of those.
So why do I feel so jealous?
Of course, the answer is easy. They look like they’re enjoying themselves, and I’m not. But it’s a little more too it than that.
It’s what they’re wearing. It’s what they look like.
Wearing such beautiful dresses. Some are sleeveless, some flowing down, gowns, outfits I don’t know the names for. Bows, ribbons, frills and lace; such a variety of beauty.
Their hair, long and flowing, short and cropped. All of it eminates beauty, confidence, grace and femininity. Everything I don’t have. Everything I want.
It just hurts. Wanting to be like them so badly, at the same time I know I can never look like them. Never be beautiful like them. That people will always either call me handsome or look at me like a freak. That even those who accept me will just pretend like I don’t look disgusting. That’s always how I think when I’m at my lowest.
Obviously with the benefit of hindsight, this line of thought is clearly false, even pretty offensive to people like me. But I’ve thought like this before, and I’ll feel like it again. When has logic ever gotten in the way of self-loathing?
I couldn’t help thinking that it’s all unfair. So unfair that I have to live like this. The other half of my mind comes roaring back: telling me how stupid I am, that life is never fair, and how naive and self-centered it is to act like fairness is something I’m owed when others are given so, so much less.
I’m so pathetic.
Still, I can’t look away. I feel like I shouldn’t look away, like this is important to watch. I can’t explain why, but the pain feels like pleasure.
It’s exquisite.
——
There’s always the aftercare. I didn’t come here alone after all. Some of the few people I can say I truly love are here, and they’re tired, just like me. I’m comforted by them. I don’t tell them exactly how I’m feeling, just that I don’t feel well. They understand. Their words feel … soft. Yeah, that’s the best way to describe it. Soft. I don’t even think I’m being intentionally comforted. It could be that I’m either too easy, or they’re just good at what they do.
It helps put things into perspective. This evening, I thought about whether I should talk about how I was feeling. Eventually, I concluded that telling them would be selfish, that it would bring everyone down unnecessarily. I still kinda think that’s true, but I realized something else: that they’re exhausted too. I need to put more faith in my friends. I should trust them with my feelings, not for my sake, but for theirs.