Because when I was ten the boy with the orange hair made me the joke of the fifth grade when my friend told him I had a crush on him.
Because the boy with the black hair in the gym class never even knew my name in seventh grade.
Because the boy with the brown hair wouldn’t speak to me when my anxiety kicked in and I couldn’t even look him in the eye after the junior homecoming.
Because the boy with the blonde hair, the first one who ever really held my heart, promised me he wouldn’t go anywhere, said he wouldn’t break me, then turned around and threw me in the trash.
Not because there haven’t been chances, although there haven’t been many.
Not because I haven’t tried, I have (even though it’s hard).
Not because I want to be, because I don’t.
If they ask you why I am alone, tell them about the monsters that live in my mind.
Tell them about the silent depression that encircles my heart and reminds me of every moment in the past that I failed, or that went horribly awry.
Tell them about the anxiety that is noisy, but only to me. How it makes my heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings and wraps its long, thin fingers around my throat so I can barely breathe, let alone speak. Explain how it makes every decision seem like life-or-death, how I am instantly hyperaware of every inconsequential detail.
Tell them, if you can, how it is to live with these forces inside you at all times, always at war, completely out of your control. How it feels to live in a world that shames you for a disease you never asked for, never even wanted.
If they ask you why someone as bright, sweet, and caring as I am is all alone in this world, tell them that when the person comes along who can handle the storm inside which I have yet to overcome, I will not be alone anymore.