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That’s how I feel.

It makes no difference how many people are there, I’m different.

It doesn’t matter how much I write about it, how freely I talk about it, how many people ask me how I am or say they’re there for me.  I’m alone in a room full of people.

I can’t talk about the same things other people talk about.  I can’t pretend to care about their broken hot water heater, or their annoyances at work.  I will never be one of them; I’m alone in a room full of people.

I sit in that room full of people and I see that I am alone.  I see how easy it would be to change that.  I have social graces, I can make pleasant conversation and pretend to be outraged at their latest problem; except I can’t.  I don’t want to.  Because even if I do, it won’t make me less alone in a room full of people.

I am alone around the people who love me, the people who like me, the people who know me.  I will always be alone, for the rest of my life.

Alone.  In a room full of people.  It’s no longer worth the effort.

 

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