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.