second born. a name that starts with the second letter of the alphabet. woman. second thoughts. second choice. it seems my life is a strange phenomenon of two. always the second, not the first. average. not great, just good enough.
i sit in an almost empty house (thank goodness for my cat), on a quiet saturday afternoon, with the fan whirring at full speed the only noise i hear. the whirring is familiar, sounds like the thoughts in my head. i am sadly reminded that this year, i will be thirty years old. thirty years of a life led in the second person. a second person that lives in my head and constantly reminds me of the depressing truth. thirty years of a life, with nothing to show for it except money owed to banks and friends and family, work that seems insignificant the next day, friends that no longer remember me, broken relationships that were broken, strangely, because i could not fathom that the second is more important than the first.
jokes about me taking my pills on time, and being bipolar and depressive seem all too real with every passing day. i stare at a wall, asking myself, or rather asking it if i am depressed after all. i sit on an imaginary abyss, hoping and praying someone or something would pull me back. either ways, i remain true to the hopelessly, disillusioned second person i am.
someone once asked me, what makes me happy. i could not think of a single thing. either i am happy in a way that needs no reassurance, or i am unhappy enough to not want happiness at all. no matter how many quotes i pin on my board, how many paintings i make with reds and yellows, no matter how many poems i write, i cannot seem to fill this space that slowly becomes darker than the darkness i know and cherish.
when people would ask me what i wanted in life, my answer was - i want only two things: to be thin and to be rich. years and years of wanting something has now become something that can either drown me once and for all, or be my only saving grace. every day is a struggle between making those two dreams come true, and wanting to give up dreaming altogether. i have either reached a stage of complete nirvana, where i want for nothing and no one wants me; or i am at the cusp of achieving greatness. i do not know. i used to revel in my solitude, protecting it and watching over it as if it were an only child. now, i am begging for a crutch. something, someone, some kind of solace that will make me want again.
the second person in my head is shouting today. screaming and crying and pleading to be released. but she is hidden inside the smallest of the russian dolls. and all the walls i have built around me has trapped me in a maze that i cannot find a way out of. stone-cold-hearted, lying to myself every single day, smiling when i want to scream, crying in secret, resigning myself to second-best. no glory, no love, no kingdoms to torch for the sake of another, no more poems to write. even this note to the unknown is a second draft...
and as the quiet gets quieter, i recognise the hidden truth, slowly emerging from the darkness. i must leave. again. a second time. leave this place that dulls my senses, blacks out my sky and injects despair into my bones. i must leave now. i must step away from the abyss, and trod against the darkness, no matter how comforting it is. but how? thirty years of a life spent trying to be happy, with nothing to show for it except uncountable poems about the darkness, and a growing fear of looking at myself in the mirror. either i continue living a lie, or i leave now. i think i'll choose option two.