The Usual Suspects

You know the saying “Fake it till you make it”?  That saying got to me.  It really did.  I wanted to make it.  I wanted to be better.  So I faked it until I made it, and now I’ve made it, and I still haven’t stop faking it, because I don’t belong here, and I feel like a fake.  Just tonight I was thinking how delightful it would be if I could rail a pill right now, like maybe some Adderall or Ritalin, something to get me going so I can express myself honestly.  But what for?  A night of pure bliss.  Right?  I’m so fragile now I’d probably freak out, have a panic attack and think I’m going to die.  It has happened to everyone I know, so why can’t it happen to me?  So back to the thought that maybe now I have a good life.  I used to be so nonjudgmental of others when I was living in squalor.  Today all I ever do is judge other people who have less than me or who are not in a state of sanity—maybe, I figure, because I have gotten so introspective that I’ve begun projecting everything I know about myself onto others.  Because, like I said, I don’t belong here.  On the inside I’m like a scared little child who has no hopes of connecting on a purely personal level that sometimes I’d just rather burn it all down and run away from the fire.  These are the thoughts that rack my brain when I can’t sleep, which is most of the time, anyway.  Forget stimulants, I still deprive myself of sleep because I’m too depressed and I’m afraid to dream.  If only I had someone to talk to about how fucked-up I feel, maybe they could tell me they feel the same and now I’d just hate myself for opening up.  I want a solution to these thoughts.  My first therapist in Nashua spent the whole session—every single session—talking about himself.  His life and his stories.  The only reprieve from his monologue was that I could read him my new stories or poems.  My second therapist I never asked if I could read him anything, because I didn’t want to go down that same rabbit hole and talk nonsense the whole session.  I wanted a solution.  He reinforced that I’m normal and my thoughts are normal, even though when he asked me things and I answered, he constantly pointed out the fallacies of my thoughts & behaviors.  I just want to be okay.  So I faked my way through all the sessions, and I never really enjoyed going because I was never able to read my new writing to him.  I told him the truth but the truth as I know is a lie.  I just want to be okay.  And then my insurance said they weren’t going to pay, for now, and it cost 120 dollars a session and I figured that was an expensive price to be bored for a whole hour once a week.  If I want that, I can go back to school.  I know this might make no sense to most people, but I don’t belong here.  It’s not that I don’t deserve good things, it’s just that people like me don’t get good things, and yet … here we are.  Fake it till you make it.  I guess I’m gonna be faking it for the rest of my life, because I suppose I’ll never feel better.