They'll only love you after you're dead

I cannot claim perfection, and I never would, but there is something so nonsensical about the ease with which I have been outcasted. There was barely any hesitation at all. You spend your entire life saying "please" and "thank you," holding the door open and placing the weight of others' problems on your shoulders even though your spine bends unnaturally in pain caused by an inflated chest; you do everything you are told: nod, smile, keep your opinions to yourself. But the moment you grow up and think to yourself, "Why, I have a voice. Shouldn't I use it?" that one act of self-awareness, self-reliance, causes the lifeline that connects you to those around you to snap into a violent disconnect and sends you free falling, unsure if your body is still on earth or if it is just your head that floats up past the clouds and into outer space, where you remain cold and alone, watching all of the people you left behind on the planet below continue on as if not even a strand of hair on their heads could be disturbed by the wind.

I walked through the halls of the dormitory as if I had a right to be there. (I did, though, didn't I? My parents spent money they didn't have just so I could occupy space in the building.) But I felt utterly out of place as if I was an invader from a different planet, and if someone were to round the corner on the opposite side of the wall at the same time I did, they would scream in horror at the extraterrestrial being staring back at them with the dumbfounded look of a lost puppy who has been caught searching through someone's garbage can for scraps of food.

So I walked along with my head held high as though I was untouchable, superior, above the fun of youth being experienced behind every closed door that lined the hallway. My eyes focused straight ahead and never faltered, even when fellow students walked past on either side of me, speaking jovially in uneven volume as they made their way to whatever social gathering they had the right to attend that night. As good as I felt, as inflated as my head was as I sauntered down the hallway with an air of superiority over my peers, there was nothing in the world I wanted more than to have that same right to knock on one of those closed doors and be let through to the other side, allowed to experience the thrill of human connection that was supposed to become a natural part of the routine of a college student. Instead, I beelined past the muffled laughter and muted baselines into the room at the end of the hall, where dark silence sat waiting for my return.

The silence of loneliness can drown out the loudest of songs. It is a ringing in your ears that comes from within, and the melody will follow you wherever you go. In a sea of faces full of intent, where the hosts of these bodies possess entire worlds behind their eyes; worlds full of friendships and love interests, families waiting for them back home, pets who will jump up on their legs when they walk back through the door during winter break, cell phones with text messages riddled with inside jokes, homework assignments, and plans for that night. The fullness of their lives passing you by, the voyeuristic way you watch them interact with one another, and the life they scroll through in the palm of their hand is simply a mirror that reflects your emptiness back to you. A world behind your eyes that has been experiencing a drought. A phone with barely any notifications besides the settings app telling you it's time for an update and the notes typed with scatter-brained non-sequiturs that you swear you'll make sequential someday, holding out hope that you will finally be in a position where others will want to read your words and will value your insight.

So confidently I stepped up on that stage and spoke into the microphone with a voice that didn't shake. And when I stepped back, everyone cheered. They rushed the stage in droves with arms outspread in a validating embrace that assured me they were proud of me. They were all my friends. Every single one of them. Even the ones who held daggers behind their backs. I wish someone would have told me that love is only ever conditional.

So maybe human connection will always come to me in doses, never a consistent flow of hydrating spring water on the surface of my tongue, but a barren desert landscape that is lucky to experience intermittent rainfall throughout the year. And maybe I am the one to blame for most of my failed connections. As easy as it is to project blame entirely onto others, I think it is okay to admit to the bad habits that cause us to sabotage any meaningful connections we ever (or could have ever) had. To fight it or to accept it remains an internal battle.

Despite everything, my mind still begs the question: where did all of my friends go? The ones who ran towards me with smiles that falsely promised forever. If I were to die tomorrow, which of the people from my past would attend the funeral? Which would scroll past the obituary and feel somber for a moment before their attention became captivated by something much more entertaining than a dead girl they used to know? Would they miss me more now, knowing there was no second chance? Would they wish it all could have gone differently? I know I do.