I Wanted

Every time I see a group of friends, I think back to when I was in High School, spending every moment of my life away thinking, when I am in college, I will have friends.  I won’t ever have to spend lunch in the bathroom, sobbing.  I won’t ever have to pretend that I have to stay in the library because I got a huge project to do.  I won’t ever have to make fake posts on Facebook to pretend that I am not alone.  I will have a large cohort  of tall, skinny, brunette friends: the scenario keeps playing and replaying in my head like a rewinded advertisement. Four friends, walking out of a cafe, at around twelve o clock, one hand touching the handbag, faces turned toward each other, laughing because of something that someone just said.  Our long, wavy hair blowing in the wind.  Four attractive girls, best friends, just walking.  One friend has class at 5, so we would have to get back early, or we would have to leave her.  We would spend the late hours of twilight out at town, just us.  Young girls barely 20, in college, prime of their life.


That was all I hoped for, in high school.  I remembered thinking, be sociable, outward, friendly.  Then, people would like you, and you would have a group of friends who would support you no matter what, the ones that would smile at you for no apparent reason, and you would smile back.


I knew that there would be a chance that nothing would change.  So i developed another scenario: I would be a loner, an outright loner.  I don’t have to talk to anyone in class, or even know anyone.  I don’t have to say a single word, and just get on with my life through college, get a job.  Although now I know that I can’t get a job without networks, one thing still strikes me as counteractive: I falsely assumed that this kind of life would make me happy.


I have always thought of myself as someone who would not be bothered being lonely, someone who would rather read a book, or write in a nearby coffee shop until night breaks.  I wouldn’t have to socialize.  But every time I pass by library walk seeing people hand out flyers, their poor, waving hands, and their strained throats, I take pity on myself rather than them.  Because I know that they are part of an organization, and they have tons of friends.  They are happy.




I have changed my major two times, the first I was a writing major.  Oftentimes I wonder if I should have just stuck to that major, so I could be that isolated writer that I have always wanted to be, that girl, would long brown hair, the pretty freckles, eating a bagel in france and writing on her notebook.

But other than that, I haven’t achieved anything in college.


In this huge campus, all I can feel is loneliness.  It reflects the days I spent during elementary school.  I had immense trouble making friends, to the point where I kind of blame my mom for not taking me to the psychiatrist.  I could not speak, back then.  It was hard.  And even when I did, it was inaudible.  One painful memory came — well, not the most painful, but agonizing– memory, of one time I finished my work early and I made the resolve to get out of seat and hand it to the teacher, since that was what she told us to do when we have finished.  But just as I got out of seat, she got out of hers, and she started walking around, examining the students’ process, answering students’ questions at every table.  What I did was I followed her around the classroom, looping around the classroom almost two times, until she finally turned her back, or I finally spoke up, and I gave her my work, awkwardly.  I remember trying to get the words out of mouth– to say it once, just loud enough for her to hear, but when they came out, it was almost like a whisper that drained in a mountain of sand.  She could not hear me, but I could hear my heartbeat racing, pouring out of my stomach.

But at the end of the day, she turned her back and received my work, and I went back to my seat.


Everyday was very lonely.  I spent five years in elementary school sitting on the benches– and I remember– I would fake it until I made it.  I would put out my b***** face, and pretend that everything was fine.  I remember that I would pretend that everyone were lowlys and I was the perfect, pretty queen, and I did not have to talk to anyone.  In truth, I just–couldn’t. Talk to anyone.


Fastforward a little over a decade and I’m here, typing this on WordPress.  I felt the need to write about this because I have been thinking about this.  At first, I pitied myself, that little kid who couldn’t talk, who sat on a bench for five years straight during recess and lunch.

I still pity myself, a little bit.


I still wish I could  write this in a public space, have a stranger notice that i was typing and inadvertently peek at what I was writing, and comment on it, and hug me, and be my friend that I could count on, and bring in a whole bunch of friends so we could laugh together and go to the beach together and play card games together.

Til this day, I am still looking for that stranger.  And I don’t—- I really, don’t want to be alone.




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