For as long as I can remember, I have seen myself as that one odd individual. Someone nobody would pay much attention towards, or want any connections with. I was usually just there, in a different reality from other people’s world.

During childhood I saw other children running about in the playground, without a care in the world. So joyful and carefree. I always wondered how they were so easily happy; how were they accepted by others so easily? Growing up, I loathed myself. I craved to be somebody else, anybody else. As years past by, so did these phases. I finally accepted who I was and stopped giving a care about what others thought.

I have missed many of opportunities. But instead of just sulking in the past, I began thinking of them as stories- short stories in my life’s anthology. Consequently, that resulted in me losing interest in most people and would act accordingly towards specific people if pressed upon, as if there were set walls in place. Either I would be that silent person who never spoke and seemed to be incapable of doing anything, or that someone who was so idiotically annoying and happy that he didn’t seem to have any care in the world and acting without consequence.

All the while, an everlasting shadow of the past seemed to frequently lurk behind me, whispering ideas I thought I left behind. Honestly, I still have that fear of rejection and view it as a weakness to this day. But now I’ve accepted myself for who I am.